Faustina
by Answer
Summary: 18th Century Venice. Faustina Casanova, an unusual beauty, intends to con an man who has become a beast. When a strange curse means that they are stuck together, both are furious. There could be a way out - but no one can fall in love on demand. This is a historical fantasy retelling of Beauty and the Beast with elements from other fairytales.
1. Chapter 1

_To my followers: Guys, I know, I haven't updated in forever. I'm the worst. The good news is that this story is actually more or less finished and I promise to post it all in a timely manner. If you're still reading my stories then you're wonderful and I want you to know that I really appreciate you sticking with me._

_To everyone: Hello! This is a new story and I hope you like it. Just as a bit of background: I'm a self-published author and this story will eventually be one of my books. I'm trying an experiment where I post the whole thing chapter-by-chapter on Wattpad to try and build up a following for it. Frankly, though, Wattpad scares me a bit and posting there made me nostalgic for FFdotnet so I decided to share it here too._

_I'll be posting the story a chapter at a time as I rewrite them (they're almost all written but in third person past tense, which I decided to change) and then I'll have to delete them so that I can publish them on Amazon and elsewhere. But I promise to finish them on the free sites first! Please feel free to point out any grammar mistakes or any other editing things I've missed, I would really appreciate the help!_

_Finally, if you're on Wattpad, please follow me - I'm lonely there! My name is SheAnswers._

* * *

I will start with a truth: I am Faustina Casanova.

Yes, I am related to _that_ Casanova: Giacomo is my brother, six years older than me. No, I don't know where you can find him. Ever since he escaped imprisonment in The Leads, I've found that not knowing is the only position that it is possible to balance with my lifelong dream of never being horribly tortured.

Now that you are no longer chafing with unasked questions, I hope we can get down to the business of being really excellent friends. As I was saying, I am Faustina Casanova - and I am extraordinary too.

Like all the best stories, this one starts during _Carnevale_, when Venice is at its brightest and best. You find me perched on the very edge of a richly-upholstered chaise longue, staring intently into the eyes of a slender, pretty member of the minor nobility. Her name is Valeria and her delicate features are twisted in an expression of worry. This doesn't worry me: a lot of people look at me like that, especially once they've got to know me.

"Will this work?" she asks. "Will this make me beautiful again?"

I resist the urge to roll my eyes and instead nod slowly, holding her gaze. "Of course it will. You aren't going to tell me that you don't believe in magic, are you?"

She shakes her head.

Valeria doesn't need magic. Valeria is as beautiful as they come and I am sure that, deep down, she knows that. That is why I can help her.

As for my own beauty, I prefer to think of myself as an acquired taste. "Slender" and "pretty" are two qualities that I am content not to share with this acquaintance of mine. No one has, to my knowledge, ever accused me of being beautiful, and it is an arrangement that suits me. My figure is of the type favoured by the painter Rubens and, in my experience, many gentlemen share that artist's preference for a woman not likely to be displaced by a strong wind. Women, meanwhile, view me with friendship rather than jealousy - and that is good for business.

"Now, Valeria," I say, my voice calm and as soothing as I can manage, "I want you to listen to me very carefully."

Valeria extracts one slender, pretty hand and uses it to toss a dark, glossy ringlet over her shoulder. "I'm listening."

A disinterested passer-by - if it is possible to be either a passer-by or disinterested in a lady's private rooms - would be forgiven for assuming that the two of us are social equals. We share the same manners, the same standard of dress. The difference is that Valeria was most likely born into both, while I have acquired my manners through discreet and careful study. The dress I came by through less honest means.

"Good," I say, my voice still soft. "Just relax. Listen very closely to what I have to tell you. The magic won't work if we miss anything so it's very important that you pay close attention."

I fight to stay alert. Ironically, I find it difficult to listen to _myself_ when I start talking like this. I find it tedious in the extreme. It seems to work, though, which is what matters.

"The vial I'm going to give you contains a tincture made to a very ancient, very secret recipe, which is all but lost today."

It doesn't matter what I say, so long as Valeria listens. That's the power of my _thrall_. This makes it very tempting to discourse at length on, say, the lifecycle and mating habits of the Venetian squid, just to keep myself amused, but tomfoolery of that nature is liable to arouse the suspicions of other members of the household who might be passing. I can't afford that.

Valeria's face has acquired a glassy look. Now I can begin the real work. Still talking, in soft, repetitive phrases to keep her at ease, I feel my way into Valeria's mind. I am gentle at first, making sure that she does not react. Then I move with greater confidence. The conscious mind is still, which is to be expected under the effect of my power, but there is considerable activity beneath it. Her thoughts are sharp and quick. I'm a little ashamed of myself: I had dismissed her as a bit of a simpleton. This new information makes my task harder, though certainly not impossible.

Minds that are weak and empty can be manipulated even without my unusual ability. In the course of a precocious childhood, I made rather a game of it. More than one of our family's neighbours found himself strangely compelled to bestow _fritelle_ or some other treat on the little brown-haired urchin who stared at everybody. But even stronger ones can be altered if you can find the proper leverage.

I re-focus my attention. Valeria mentioned a fiance. More than mentioned, in fact: it seems to me that the fiance is the main reason she requested my assistance. He has become cold with her, she says, and she can't understand it.

I have a hunch.

Pushing a little deeper into her mind, I find a collection of recent memories. Feeling my usual mix of guilt and intrigue at the intrusion, I delve inside. I find a voice: male, young - and distorted, the way memories so often are.

"_I don't know… She's pleasant enough to talk to, and not unattractive… I've known worse matches, of course… but I just can't quite find it in me to be happy that I'm marrying her. Her intensity unnerves me, she says she loves me… I don't know what I feel for her, but it isn't love. How could it be? I hardly know her. But the arrangement was made so long ago…"_

I wince as the voice fades to an echo. It has often been said that those who listen at doorways seldom hear good of themselves. This is not an adage that applies to me, particularly. I like to think that my methods of acquiring information are a little more sophisticated - and often more fun - than keyhole-listening. However, it seems to have held true for Valeria in this case. I look into the girl's cool blue eyes with newfound sympathy. This must be what was troubling her.

A cursory examination of a few clearer memories confirms my suspicions. Valeria is not, by nature, a wilting flower. Indeed, up until these overheard remarks she seems to have strutted through life with a robust confidence that bordered on arrogance. All that is required is the application of a little perspective to bring that quality back to the centre of her mind and that is what I give her.

The necessary adjustments made, I lean back in my chair for a moment, taking a final opportunity to survey her. She really is very pretty. The mild disdain - if one can even call it that - of her fiance should not have lead her to the conclusion that she lacks for beauty. Still, that is remedied now, and she will realise shortly after my departure that she is as beautiful as she has ever been. It won't solve the problem of her fiance, of course, but I never make any promises in that department. Anyone seeking to make their fortune solving the mysteries of men would be bankrupt in a week.

I snap my fingers and Valeria comes to, wobbling a little in her seat as though she was being held up by a rope which has just slackened. I take out a tiny vial of dark liquid and hold it out to her.

"Here it is. Drink it in one swallow, the taste should not be unpleasant." That's because the chief ingredient in the concoction is honey, along with a few mild-tasting herbs for colour. Again, it would be possible, since the vial is merely a prop and its contents totally irrelevant, to put something really unpleasant in there just for fun, but the notion is too cruel. Tempting, but cruel.

Valeria drains the vial and lets it drop onto the low table in front of her. The worried expression is still there. "How long will it take to work?" she asks.

I retrieve the discarded vessel with an air of nonchalance, secreting it for re-use. "It depends on the individual," I tell her, airily. "Somewhere between a few minutes and a few hours is usual. You should send a servant round for me it you haven't noticed a difference by morning." I give a discreet cough. "If I might broach the subject of payment?"

"Of course." Valeria gets up, her hands straying briefly to her face, then she goes to collect a small velvet bag from a sideboard. It clicks pleasantly as she picks it up and I lick my lips in anticipation. She drops the whole thing into my palm without blinking. "It should all be there."

I count it. It is. I make a relaxed but swift exit after that, since I have found that there is little to discuss with clients once the appropriate funds have changed hands.

I don't expect Valeria to take me up on my offer of a return visit. No one ever does. I have been doing this for… How long is it now? Giacomo helped me get started by introducing me to a few of his, ah, _contacts_, so before he went to jail. Anyway, it's been long enough for me to gain recognition in the right circles, which keeps a steady flow of clients finding their way to me, and I have never had any problems.

Outside the house, I take a moment to replace the blue, velvet-covered mask I carry with me. I am embracing _Carnevale _with my usual vigour. At this wonderful time of year, Venice's citizens live in a pleasure-seeker's paradise of our own making, free to go about with our faces covered and assume whatever identities we like. It suits me very well.

I secure the mask with a ribbon behind my head and make to resume my journey, but a sudden jolt at my side stops me.

"Oh, I'm sorry." It is a man's voice, deep and smooth. I turn to examine its source.

He is tall and well-dressed but more than that it is difficult to say, since he is wearing one of the most extravagant masks I have ever seen. It is the stylised head of a goat, beginning with a relatively understated nosepiece that sticks out just above his upper lip but quickly becoming, somewhere in the region of the forehead, something rather less subtle. Two enormous horns spiral out north of his ears and the eyeholes are deep-set. I like this man immediately, since I rarely meet anyone who takes _Carnevale_ more seriously than I do.

I smile, though the effect of the mask is so great that it takes me a moment to manage speech. "That's alright," I say, eventually.

"Its the mask, I'm afraid." He taps one of the horns. It gives a hollow echo - _papier mache_. "Plays merry hell with my peripheral vision." Something in the stranger's eyes suggests he is equally taken aback by what he is seeing, though I doubt that my own mask can be the culprit.

I smile again, this time chancing a hand on his forearm. His coat is made of some soft, plush material and I find myself longing to stroke it. "Think nothing of it. It is a magnificent mask."

The stranger smiles and I even wonder if he is blushing, though so much of his face is obscured that it is impossible to say for sure. "Thank you."

I look around. _Carnevale_ overwhelms me with the sense that anything is possible. I decide to push my luck. "Would you care to accompany me back to my apartments, Signor?"

The stranger hesitates for a moment, then his smile widens. "I would be honoured."

I slip my arm into his and begin to lead him. "You'll have to take the mask off, of course."

"Naturally. Will you be removing yours as well?"

I grin, wickedly. "Of course not, Signor. A woman has her reputation to think of!"


	2. Chapter 2

I see Valeria again at a party a year later, as another _Carnevale_ gets underway, though she does not see me. This is chiefly owing to the fact that I am hiding behind a curtain on a second floor mezzanine, keeping a watchful eye over the glittering revellers below. She appears for a moment, a face in the crowd, then she is gone. I don't watch to see where she goes: I have other things on my mind.

Senator Pietro de Rege's soirees are always large and unruly, even by Venetian standards, and tend to spill out through the open doors of his sumptuous palazzo and into the _campo _outside. It is next to impossible to distinguish between invited and uninvited guests when everyone wears a mask, so no one really tries. Only a quarter of an hour ago I was among them, engaged in conversation with a very pleasant young man who, through no fault of his own, is under the impression that my name is Elenore. Strictly speaking, I am among the uninvited, although that's not why I'm hiding.

Chiara, my friend and accomplice, catches my eye from the main doorway and gives the signal. I watch closely as one richly-costumed woman detaches herself from the crowd. Her manner is furtive and her face is pale and strained. Casting nervous glances about her, she makes for the staircase and in a few heartbeats she has joined me on the landing.

I step out to greet her. "Signora Rossi, I presume?"

"Yes." She is frightened. Fear radiates from her every pore and she turns her elegant black mask in her hands. She cannot be more than sixteen years old. I wonder if she has ever done anything like this before and decide it is unlikely. She must be desperate. "You are Signorina Casanova, aren't you?"

I smile and bow my head. "The very same." I hold out a hand to her. "Are you ready?"

It takes a moment, but she finds her determination. It is now or never and I know she cannot live with "never".

"Yes," she says, "I'm ready."

"Your sweetheart is waiting in the gondola," I tell her.

She bites her lip. "My husband will kill him if he catches us."

"He won't catch you."

We both glance downwards. Signor Rossi is among noblemen. If he has noticed that his young wife is not at his elbow, he has not yet begun to look for her. In contrast to the gaiety around him, his manner is stiff, his expression cold.

Signora Rossi shudders a little beside me. "I tried to love him," she says, softly. "For my family's sake, I tried. But he was… unkind, to me."

I nod, silently. There have been rumours that a maid in the Rossi house discovered the nobleman beating his wife.

She turns away. "Let's go."

She's right. Time is of the essence. I lead her quickly along a passageway to a narrow doorway, the entrance to the servants' quarters.

"Go down the stairs to the kitchens. A boy there will show you how to get to the side door that leads onto the canal and will see that no one stops you." I drop a couple of coins into her hand. "You'll need to give him this."

Her fingers curl over the money. "I wish there was something I could give you for your trouble. I have no money of my own."

I shake my head. "There isn't time," I say, gently. "Go."

She opens the door, gives me a brief, weak smile and disappears. This is a service I provide for something other than money.

I walk back down the corridor a little way and duck into a room whose window will, I predict, overlook the canal, closing the door behind me. My prediction is correct: there is the sweetheart, a boy she has known and loved all her life, standing in a gondola and looking anxious while the gondolier drums his fingers impatiently on his oar. A few moments later, Signora Rossi - she'll change her name when they get to Padua, where the young man has family - hurries towards him and they embrace. The gondolier takes his cue and pushes them off down the canal. I feel a smile creep across my face. In minutes they will be on the Grand Canal in a _burchiello_, bound for freedom.

There is a knock at the door. I panic, searching for an excuse for my presence here. I suspect that there is a moral line between showing up uninvited to a large party and being caught wandering the private rooms of the house and I am on the wrong side of it.

"Signorina Casanova!" bellows a harsh voice. "_Where is my wife?_"

Adrenaline starts to surge through me. He's after rather more than an excuse. I cast about for options. This room is not a large one and it has little to offer the would-be escapist. When installing a perfectly functional door, the de Rege ancestor who built this palazzo probably thought he was serving the exit needs of all of the room's occupants for the forseeable future. My like me, he does not seem to have budgeted for an enraged nobleman.

The window is the only alternative, though I do not relish the prospect. There again, Signor de Rege has failed to anticipate my requirements. Were I a light breeze or a beam of sunlight, I would have been welcomed through this window with open arms, so to speak. My generous hips and layered skirts are likely to gain a rather frostier reception.

As Signor Rossi begins to hammer violently on the door, I peer out of the window towards the ground. There we have another problem. There is a stone walkway below me, between the house and the canal. There is certainly a _possibility_ that I would survive a drop to the ground from here, but somehow that doesn't seem quite good enough. When it comes to survival, I've always been a bit of a perfectionist.

The hammering on the door intensifies. I think I hear something give.

"Tell me where she is, slattern, or I'll kill you!"

I raise my eyebrows. I wonder if any of the guests downstairs can hear him. I fear he may be in danger of tarnishing his reputation but, I am ashamed to say, don't have much time for contemplating the troubles of another human being at this moment. Another blow to the door produces an unmistakeable sound of splintering and makes up my mind.

"Oh well," I mutter. "Live or die trying."

Bunching up my ample skirts in one hand, I scramble up onto the windowsill, then pause there for a moment, hunched like a gargoyle and contemplating human mortality. Then I begin to haul myself up and out. As I anticipated, the window frame holds tight about my hips, but my dress seems to ease my way through. I smile to myself. Is there nothing that silk can't do?

Both my feet are on the windowsill now. My fingers find purchase on the sill of the window above. Inside the room, I hear wood splinter. It is now or never. I hold fast to the upper window, lifting first one foot, then the other, to the decorative stone ridge that arches over the window. Below, Signor Rossi's reddened face appears, twisted with anger.

"Tell me!" he screams. "Tell me where she is!"

The shutters of the window above are open. I long to fling a retort at him but resolve to save my energy. I thrust my hands forward, one then the other, and catch hold of the inside of the upper window frame. With a final burst of energy I kick away my perch on the lower window and throw myself through the new one, landing in an undignified heap on the floor.

This room is a bedroom, mercifully unoccupied. Disentangling my dress from the nearest piece of furniture, I discover that it is a dressing table. I stand up and look into the mirror, taking a moment to adjust the glittering, gold-embossed mask covering my cheeks and forehead.

That's something no one warned me about when I set out to become a professional manipulator of fate: mask sweat. The struggle to dress elegantly and yet practically for a masked ball in which I am likely to get swept up in some sort of dangerous intrigue continues.

I cannot waste any more time: Signor Rossi is most likely striding up the stairs in hot pursuit. I exit the room - this door meeting my needs nicely - and make for the servants' staircase. It is a chilly, bare-stoned affair and I had hoped to avoid taking it, but I recognise that there are worse things. Nearing the bottom, I regretfully pull out another couple of coins which I press into the hands of a surprised maid somewhere in the vicinity of the scullery, pressing a finger to my lips to indicate that her discretion will be appreciated. From here, it is a relatively simple matter of slipping out via the dining room and into the palazzo's large marble hallway where I blend in quickly with the other masked revellers. The party is a good one and I regret that I don't have a spare mask with me so that I could stay here unrecognised.

I find Chiara in a corner of the ballroom, resplendent in a peacock mask. She smiles at my approach.

"How did it go?" she asks.

I take a deep breath before answering. "They got away," I say, "but now I'll have to do likewise."

"What happened?"

I shake my head. "There's no time now. I've got a tip for you."

Chiara straightens up, alert. "A man?"

"Yes. English. English is good, right?"

Chiara nods. "Yes, English is perfect."

"Good. He's over there by the wall, do you see him? Full-face mask in the shape of a moon, red velvet coat, quite tall?"

"I see him."

"Go over and tell him you're a friend of Elenore's and she's been unexpectedly taken ill and had to go home."

She licks her lips. "What's his name?"

This throws me for a moment. "I've forgotten. Lord somebody."

She gives a quirked smile. "That's helpful."

I shrug. "Hey, do you want him or don't you? I'm sorry to let this one go, he was quite good fun."

"Just not fun enough for you to remember his name?"

"Hey, I'm a busy woman. Places to go, people to climb out of windows to get away from. Sometimes details slip my mind."

Chiara's lips wrinkle as she processed this. "Climb out of windows?"

I grin, wickedly. "Some other time, my love."


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks so much for your follows and reviews so far! Just a short one this time for point of view reasons, but another one coming tonight or tomorrow! Please let me know what you think :)_

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CHIARA

I watch Faustina disappear effortlessly into the crowd. She's a good person to have in your court, even if you can't always get her to stand still long enough for a conversation, and her little tip has saved me some time. I just wish she could have finished the job for me. Faustina would be so much better at my job than I am. Not that that's a compliment.

For a moment, I wonder - as I so often do - what would happen if I didn't do it. I could walk out of this palazzo right now, get into a public gondola and follow Signora Rossi and her sweetheart across to the mainland and freedom. Except that the mainland is as far as I would get. I have no money, no connections. My stepmother has both and she would find me - and life after that would be a thousand times worse than it is now.

Faustina would help me to escape if she knew that was what I wanted but it isn't worth the risk. Besides, I would miss Giorgio. It doesn't seem fair to leave him alone with _her_.

I make some last-minute adjustments to my appearance, retying the cord that keeps my mask in position and running a hand over my hair to smooth the carefully-arranged curls. A servant passes by at just the right moment with a tray of drinks and I gulp down a small glass of wine, marshalling my courage.

Finally, I can delay no further. I set off in the direction Faustina indicated, towards the young man. He has not moved from his spot by the wall and, as I approach, I almost feel sorry for him. He is shifting his weight swiftly from one foot to the other and back again He looks around him with an air of anxiety, presumably for the woman who slipped effortlessly past him some moments ago. Still, it is within my power to make him feel a little better for the time being - although I will later make him feel a lot worse.

I step into his line of vision. "Excuse me, Signor?"

"_Buon gior - _er, _buona sera_, Signorina." He sweeps a courteous bow. I note the accept: definitely English. Faustina has let me down on that score before. She thinks she's worldly - and I suppose she is, in a way - but she's never been outside the Veneto region and she relies on her many friends and contacts for her information about the world beyond its borders. In any case, this is a relief. It is not essential that the mark be English and I have had plenty of success with gentlemen of other nationalities, but the English are the easiest because they seem to care the most for public opinion. Except when it slips their minds.

I introduce myself. Unlike Faustina, I don't bother with false names. "My name is Chiara, Signor. I think you know my friend Elenore? She asked me to tell you that she has been taken ill and had to leave the ball early."

"Oh." His disappointment is palpable. I must ask Faustina what exactly she did to the poor man. "I am sorry to hear that. Please give her my regards and tell her that I very much enjoyed our conversation this evening."

"I will, Signor." I venture a smile. "I'm afraid I didn't catch your name when she gave it to me…?"

"Chiswick," he replies. "Lord Chiswick. But you can call me Edward."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Edward. I don't suppose you would care to dance?"


	4. Chapter 4

FAUSTINA

Outside Signor de Rege's palazzo, I make my way to the edge of the square and am please to spy a couple of familiar faces standing at the edge of the canal.

"Signora Sebastiano!" I call. "Beatrice!"

Two women turn to acknowledge me. The elder of them is a graceful woman of around fifty, clutching a mask edged in fine black lace. Her brown hair is tied in a carefully-sculpted knot on the top of her head, showing off an elegant neck to best advantage. Her dress is stylish and tasteful, if a little muted by the standards of this gathering, in a timeless style that has already seen her through several seasons. She has a hand on the shoulder of the younger woman, Beatrice, her niece. Beatrice's dress, in contrast, was ordered mere weeks ago and arrived just this morning. It is a striking confection in rose pink satin that brings out the damask in her cheeks. A few strands of white-blonde hair, escaping the complicated construction of her hairstyle, trail across her shoulders. Her blue eyes, meeting mine, shine from pleasant exertion.

I hurry towards them. "There's been a change of plan. I should like to come back with you after all, if that's all right?"

Signora Sebastiano looks me over with an indulgent eye. "You're not unwell, I hope?"

I give her a smile. It was a concern of mine, back when I first impressed Beatrice with a few tricks at a party several months ago and won her patronage and friendship, that a widowed aunt and guardian might be the sort of person liable to object to a niece's decision to invite a stranger to live with her. The fear was unfounded. Signora Sebastiano's devotion to Beatrice knows no bounds. About a few things - society, decorum, the importance of appearing to advantage in front of one's neighbours, she is firm. Beyond that, Beatrice does as she wishes. Fortunately, for the moment, she wishes to have me as her companion - and, moreover, that her companion be kept in handsome shoes and dresses.

"Thank you, no", I say, in response to Signora Sebastiano's question. "I am quite well. I have simply tired of the festivities sooner than I thought I would."

Beatrice gives an impatient sigh and rolls her eyes. "Well, I haven't tired of them. I hardly got to dance with anybody!"

Signora Sebastiano gives her shoulder a squeeze. "I know, my dear. But tomorrow is an important day and I know how hard it is to get you out of bed when you've been out any later than this."

Our turn has come for a gondola. I wave one over and we step onto it, aided with a smile by a pleasantly sweet-faced gondolier. Beatrice and her aunt share the wide, well-padded seat at the back while I settle myself on a smaller bench to one side.

Beatrice stares moodily into the water. "I don't see why I have to go and meet this man tomorrow. I'm not ready to be married yet."

It is Signora Sebastiano's turn to sigh. "Beatrice, my dear, we have talked about this a hundred times…"

"Yes, and a hundred times I've told you I'm only sixteen, I'm not ready to be married!"

"Sixteen is a perfectly good age to be married. Your mother was sixteen when she married my brother. I was only just seventeen when I married my husband."

"What about Faustina? She's twenty-two and not yet married. She's not even engaged!"

I cringe, feeling their gazes on me. I decide to save Signora Sebastiano the embarrassment of trying to think of a response. "I don't think I'm a perfect example, Beatrice. Even before my brother was a wanted criminal, my reputation wasn't exactly as spotless as yours is. I don't think I'm likely to marry at all." Not, of course, that I have any desire in that direction. If Signora Sebastiano were not present I might have spoken this last thought out loud but this is not the time.

"Faustina is right," Signora Sebastiano says, "your cases are not comparable. Faustina has not your advantages in life, nor your responsibilities."

She doesn't mean it as an insult, nor could it be said to be untrue, so I don't respond. Instead, I let my attention wander, allowing the conversation - which continues in a similar vein - to wash over me.

I don't agree with Signora Sebastiano's frankly outdated insistence that Beatrice should marry a man she has never met, just because her father betrothed her to him before he died. A few years ago, I would have said as much, but time has changed me. Experience of life away from the safety of family has tempered my fire. Existence outside of the boundaries set by society is hard and, while I love her wholeheartedly, Beatrice doesn't have the strength of character she would need to survive it alone. I have determined to wait at least until Beatrice has met her intended face to face. If she dislikes him… well, perhaps that will be the time to speak. For now, I must remain silent.

We have been waiting in a sort of queue, there being too many gondolas packed into a narrow stretch of canal not designed with one of Senator De Rege's parties in mind. The way ahead is now clear and the gondolier is about to push us off on their way but something stops him. A woman comes dashing away from the party, hurtling towards us at such a speed that for a moment I am convinced that she will continue straight into the water.

"Signora Sebastiano! Signora, please wait-!"

I recognise her now that she is closer, though I am struggling to remember her name. I think it's Alessia something. She is one of our neighbours. She's been to dinner with us once or twice in the time that I have been living with Beatrice and her aunt. She is unremarkable to look at: not particularly unattractive, just forgettable. She looks younger than Signora Sebastiano, though not by much, and her round, amiable face is framed by unruly brown curls.

Signora Sebastiano holds up a hand to indicate that the gondolier should halt. "My goodness, Alessia, what's the matter?"

Alessia runs a hand across her brow, breathing heavily. "Signora, please, can I join you in your gondola? I simply must leave now, you would be doing me such a kindness!"

I can see that Signora Sebastiano is mildly alarmed by this unseemly display of emotion, but she is not unkind.

"Of course you may. Take the seat across from Faustina, there. You don't mind, do you, Faustina?"

I smile and shake my head. "Of course not."

Alessia steps onto the boat, seeming not to notice the hand proffered by the gondolier to assist her. "Oh, thank you, Signora Sebastiano, thank you. I can't tell you how grateful I am."

Signora Sebastiano accepts these thanks with a gracious wave of her hand. "Not at all, Alessia, you are welcome. Gondolier, I think we are ready to depart now."

"As you wish, Signora," comes the reply.

I watch Alessia anxiously rearrange her skirts as the gondola begins to glide down the canal. To my left, Beatrice resumes the argument with her aunt. I lean forward to speak to Alessia.

"I'm so sorry, Signora, but I seem to have forgotten your family name."

Alessia looks up, seeming surprised to have been engaged in conversation. "Oh, that's alright. It's Agosti."

I clap my hand to my forehead. "Of course! Signora Agosti. It was on the very tip of my tongue."

Alessia drops her gaze, slowly shaking her head. "Signorina."

"I'm sorry?"

"I am unmarried. And likely to remain so, after the events of this evening."

I lean back again. There is a theme emerging to this gondola ride.

I am torn. On the one hand, it is apparent that Alessia wants time alone to brood on whatever dark thoughts are nesting in her mind. On the other hand, she will have time for that when we have returned her home and I am curious. How could I not be, after a statement like that?

"What happened this evening?" I ask, cautiously.

Alessia looks up and I immediately regret asking. I am cowed by the sadness in her expression. This is clearly far more than frivolous gossip.

She hesitates. "It's a personal matter."

I back down quickly. "I won't push you to talk about it if you'd rather not. We don't know each other well - no doubt you have friends or family you would rather discuss this with."

Tears well in the corners of her eyes. "Thank you." She looks away again and, a moment later, heaves a sob.

I begin to panic. I was not prepared for an outpouring of emotion. I confess that my intentions in starting this conversation were not exactly noble but I had no wish to give the poor creature any further reason to grieve. "Oh, Alessia." I keep my voice low, so as not to attract the attention of the boat's other occupants. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to upset you."

Alessia's voice is thick. "I know you didn't. It's just… I really don't have anyone to share my troubles with. This has been such a disaster and I simply don't know what I am to do now."

I wring her fingers together, beginning to grow agitated myself. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Alessia shakes her head. "I don't think there's anything anyone can do to help me now."

"Well… can you tell me anything about what's happened?"

Alessia nods. She takes a few breaths to compose herself, wiping the tears out of her eyes before she speaks again. "It was a man," she begins, but the words won't come out. To my alarm, she begins to heave great, wracking sobs, covering her face with her hands.

"Good gracious, Alessia, what's the matter?" Signora Sebastiano has noticed the emotional scene unfolding in front of her.

Alessia shakes her head.

"Dorsoduro 3764," announces the gondolier, before anyone else can speak. We have been making good progress through the network of narrow canals that make up the veins and arteries of Venice and we are now mooring up against Beatrice's family home in Dorsoduro. The gondolier raps his oar against the heavy wooden door that opens directly onto the canal and one of Beatrice's servants, an elderly retainer by the name of Zambrano, comes out to meet us.

I stand up to let Beatrice and Signora Sebastiano pass. "I'll stay on the gondola and go round the corner with Signorina Agosti," I say. "I'll walk back afterwards, it's not far."

"Th-thank you," Alessia stutters, her sobbing now subsiding.

"If you're sure, Faustina." Signora Sebastiano stands up. "Alessia, you should join us for dinner again sometime soon. I'll have someone come round with an invitation once I know when we're available." She smiles, then turns away. "Good evening, Zambrano."

"Good evening, Signora."

I flash a smile across at Beatrice as Signora Sebastiano disembarks. She does not return it. Her gaze seems unfocused, her skin pale. I eye her with concern, about to say something, but Zambrano speaks before I open my mouth.

"Signorina Beatrice? Can I help you into the house?"

"Thank you," Beatrice murmurs. She starts to stand up, a little unsteady on her feet. She struggles fully upright, then staggers and melts towards the ground.

Signora Sebastiano looks back from inside the house and gasps. "Beatrice!"

I lunge forward. Between us, Zambrano and I catch Beatrice before she hits the ground, though the boat rocks wildly beneath us. The gondolier puts out a hand to the wall to right it and I grip my patron tightly about the waist as the movement subsides.

I gather my thoughts quickly. "Let's get her inside. Signora Sebastiano, can you get someone to bring water and blankets to the sitting room? Zambrano and I will carry her in. Gondolier, could you take Signorina Agosti home? I'll call on you tomorrow if you like," I add, this last to Alessia, whom we have all but forgotten.

"There's no need," Alessia murmurs, unconvincing.


	5. Chapter 5

_Thanks so much for reading! This rewrite/edit is going pretty well and it's really great to see that people are reading it. I'd love to hear what you guys think of it!_

_Oh, and a special shout out to A.S.112, who is doing a great job of catching some typos for me and is just generally awesome :)_

* * *

Inside the house, Zambrano and I lay Beatrice gently on a chaise longue in the drawing room. The blankets I requested are duly delivered and laid carefully over her. As I shoo away the staff in order to give Beatrice some space, I become aware of a hand gripping my elbow. I turn to look into the tearful face of Signora Sebastiano.

"Oh, Faustina, please do something for her!"

I nod, then turned to look back at Beatrice's still form with mounting unease. I know what she means. She wants me to use my powers. It's the kind of situation I've been dreading - and not only for my own sake. I am almost tempted to come clean here and now but I have to pull myself together. A tearful confession won't do Beatrice any good. Nor will I, if I've been thrown out of the house. I close my eyes for a moment and concentrate.

Finally, I say: "I need you to bring some more things for me."

Signora Sebastiano jumps to attention. "What do you need?"

I flounder, but only for a moment. "Bring me a mirror, a candle, a sprig of rosemary, some olive oil and a pestle and mortar."

Signora Sebastiano frowns. I can almost hear the questions she wants to ask, but luckily the urgency of the situation overtakes her. "Alright. I'll be as quick as I can."

I listen as her footsteps fade along the corridor, then look back at Beatrice. I know a little about medicine but nothing that will help me now. My brother once saved a wealthy man suffering a stroke by the simple expedient of recommending that he not be poisoned with mercury and earned himself a valuable patronage in the process. I don't expect to share his luck.

I lean over Beatrice, holding my cheek beside her mouth and nose. Her breath is warm on my skin and - I place two fingers to her wrist - her heart is beating as normal. It is as though she has simply fallen asleep.

"Beatrice? Beatrice, can you hear me?"

I hear voices and an approaching clattering of footsteps: it would appear that Signora Sebastiano has enlisted assistance and found all the necessary items. I begin to panic. What am I going to do now? Grind up a rosemary paste by reflected candlelight and wait for a miracle?

I speak softly into Beatrice's ear. "Beatrice, you need to wake up. Can you hear me, Beatrice?"

A miracle occurs. Beatrice stirs a little, just as Signora Sebastiano re-enters the room.

"Faustina?" Beatrice's eyelids flutter.

Signora Sebastiano rushes across the room. "Beatrice, thank goodness!" She wraps her arms tightly around her. "Faustina, what did you do?"

An awkward smile twists my features. I spit out the inevitable lie. "I got lucky with a small incantation, Signora."

Signora Sebastiano reaches out and, without warning, wraps an arm around me, including me in the embrace. "We got lucky too, Faustina, in having you join our little family."

I participate uncomfortably in the hug for a few moments and breathe a silent sigh of relief when she releases me. I look Beatrice up and down.

"How do you feel now?"

Beatrice frowns. "Alright. A little tired."

"Sit down, dear," Signora Sebastiano says, indicating the sofa behind Beatrice. Beatrice does as she is told. "Do you want me to cancel your appointment for tomorrow?"

I feel my eyebrows raise a little at the characterisation of tomorrow's event as an 'appointment'. I suppose she couldn't offer to cancel Beatrice's 'engagement' without kindling false hope.

Beatrice is shaking her head. "No. Might as well get it over with."

"That's the spirit," I murmur, but not loud enough for anyone to hear.

The party in the living room breaks up quickly, with Beatrice dispatched to bed in the company of her maids. I wish Signora Sebastiano and the servants a good night before making my own way upstairs. I have just reached the door of my room when I hear hasty footsteps behind me and turn. It is a maid, one of the servants I trust with some of the more discreet tasks I need doing. She is clutching something in her hand.

"Excuse me, Signorina, but these came for you."

"Oh. Thank you, Carlotta." I hold out my hand and she passes me two wads of paper. "Good night."

"Good night, Signorina Casanova."

Inside my room, I light a candle at my small writing desk and examine the notes. One bears an imposing wax seal. I examine it thoughtfully for a moment, then put it aside for the morning. It is the other that holds my attention. It is a rough piece of paper, folded twice and addressed to "My mysterious masked beauty".

I smile and unfold it.

"_My Dearest Stranger,"_ it begins.

"_Thank you for your letter. It amused me greatly and I cannot tell you how much I needed amusement. Sometimes I wish more than anything that you would tell me your name but I am glad at least as often that you won't. Certain events of late have lead me to wonder if mystery might be the only certainty in life."_

I have been receiving letters like this one ever since the night of my liaison with the stranger in the goat mask. In deference to a promise we made one another in a fit of whimsy, they are left by our respective servants at a shop on the Rialto Bridge. His letters are generally an amusing diversion that shed a little light on the mundanity of life but lately they have become rather sombre.

"_You asked me in your letter to tell you something that would make you laugh. Since I know you are not romantic, I think it might amuse you to know that for some weeks after our meeting I looked for you on every street corner as though fate might cause us to collide once again. Once I saw a woman who wore a mask very like yours and I fear I may have offended her through over-familiarity._

"_I feel I should make a request of you in return but I do not know what to ask for. Perhaps you will surprise me?_

"_I remain, Signorina, affectionately_

"_Your Friend."_

I put the letter aside, equal parts saddened and disappointed. I am sorry, of course, if he is troubled, but I had hoped to keep our letters as private escapes from the difficulties of life, not a place to air them.

I am being selfish, I know. I put the letter aside with its sibling: I will deal with them both tomorrow. I stand up, stretching, and cross to my dressing table.

I tug the pins roughly out of my now-tangled mane of chestnut hair. I haven't the patience for personal grooming. It has been a fraught evening, even by my own skewed standards, and my interests at the moment lie firmly in the direction of a good night's sleep. My hair thus freed, I twist it quickly into an untidy braid and set about unlacing my corset. The relief is close to euphoric: I can almost feel my internal organs reordering themselves to a more natural configuration as I toss the detestable thing to one side. Divesting myself of all other underthings, I slip into a large, soft nightdress. _Bliss_.

My bed is calling to me but I take a diversion to the window, opening the shutters to allow a little of the cool night air into my room while I sleep. I have taken perhaps two lungfuls of the stuff when I hear it: a distant shriek that slices through the quiet. I want to ignore it. I could ignore it - were it not for the splash that follows. My pulse quickens, a reserve of energy I would not have believed I possessed suddenly racing through me.

On any other night, someone else would take action. Muffled candlelight would appear in windows, cautious onlookers would leave their homes to investigate and I could simply linger here and wait to see what happened. Tonight, however, our neighbours are absent, probably still at the senator's ball. If anyone else has heard what I heard, they are showing no signs.

I suppress a groan. My evening is not yet over.


	6. Chapter 6

There is a robe hanging over the end of my bed and I pull it on over my nightdress, pausing only for a second to imagine Signora Sebastiano's horror if she knew I intended to leave the house like this. Then, picking up the candle from my desk, I leave the room. The servants have now retired to their quarters so I am alone in darkness as I make my way down the stairs and quietly out of the front door.

There is no path along the canal so I am forced to take the street leading away from it until I reach a corner, then pass several parallel streets before hastening back towards the canal some distance along it. As I move closer to the water, I begin to hear the sound of frantic splashing. Someone shouts. I stop short at the edge of the water.

"Hello?" I call. There is little moonlight to assist me tonight and the bright flame of the candle renders it impossible to make out anything in the darkness beyond its tiny sphere of influence.

"Help!" It is more of a squeal than a shout, but it is still plain to hear in the silence of the night. "I can't swim!"

It is a woman's voice, and horribly familiar.

"Alessia?" I kneel to the ground, placing the candle holder at the canal's edge beside me. "Hold on," I call, "I'm coming!"

I wriggle out of the robe and lay it beside me. Then I brace myself, close my eyes and jump.

Ordinarily I believe that one should try anything once, but it seems to me at this moment that there are exceptions to this rule and that plunging into the fetid waters of a Venetian canal is one of them. The smell I am used to, if not quite this close up, but I was not prepared for the temperature, which jolts through me in an unpleasantly icy spasm, nor for the small, miscellaneous items of rubbish that float around me.

Alessia is still flailing around as though she has a large spider on her back and has decided that the best way to rid herself of it is through the medium of a self-administered exorcism.

"It's all right!" I shout, treading water. "I'll get you out. Don't panic."

I regret speaking almost immediately, having come perilously close to ingesting some of the water, but Alessia's thrashing abates a little.

I push towards her. "Put your arms around me." I mean to be comforting but it comes out as more of a bark.

Alessia squeaks. "I don't want to die!"

I repeat the instruction. "Hold onto me!" I grab ineffectually at her, noticing for the first time that she is fully dressed, still wearing the clothes she had on at the ball.

"I don't want to die!"

"You're not going to die, you idiot." My words are spaced intermittently with gasps. "_Hold onto me!_"

Finally, Alessia does as she's told. I feel the drag instantly: Alessia's skirts, heavy with water, pull her down.

"We're going to go over there, to those steps," I tell her. Alessia nods by way of an answer.

It can't be more than twelve feet to the steps but it feels like miles. I haul Alessia out onto the pavement and we lie together for a moment, gasping and spluttering like fish on the floor of a boat.

Finding the strength to sit up, I wrap the robe around Alessia's shoulders, trying to ignore the sensation in my own body that I might at any moment shiver so hard that one or more of my limbs falls off. I take a few deep, shuddering breaths.

"What-" I am overtaken by a gasp and have to start again. "What the hell were you doing?"

Alessia splutters, lung-clearing coughs mingling with sobs to unpleasant effect. "I jumped in the canal from my balcony."

I spit into the canal. "What on earth for?"

A huge sob wracks Alessia's body. Tears mixed with the canal water drip from her hair and splash down from her face in gobbets. "I thought I wanted to die," she says. "It was all too much, I just didn't see what I could do, so I thought I'd end it all… but once I was in there I realised I was wrong, that I don't want to die… but I'm not sure I want to live either."

My feelings up until this moment have been a mixture of shock and anger, the result of having had my plan to curl up for a long night of rest so spectacularly derailed. I am cold, tired and shocked that a grown woman could have been so reckless. Now, however, they drain away, and I wrap a cold, clammy arm around Alessia's shoulders.

"Let me get you home," I say. "I want you to tell me all about it."

We are obliged to walk some distance to the nearest bridge and then double back on ourselves on the other side of the canal. By the time we reach Alessia's front door, I have been compelled to check that I am still in possession of all of my extremities some six or seven times, the cold having rendered it impossible to tell by sensation alone.

"Here it is," says Alessia, at last. She has stopped sobbing, for the moment at least.

"Good." I rap frozen knuckles against the door. The consequent stinging is fierce.

Alessia looks at me. "Oh, there won't be anyone to answer."

I lower my hand, slowly. "Why not?"

"I had to send the servants away. I haven't the money to feed them, never mind pay their wages."

"Oh." I reach for the latch. The door doesn't yield, despite a fairly vigorous shaking.

Alessia puts out a hand to stop me. "It's locked."

I wait. So, inexplicably, does Alessia. I am compelled to speak again.

"Have you got the key?"

There is a chilly moment of realisation, then Alessia's face crumples and the sobbing resumes.

"No!" she wails, this seeming to strike her every bit as hard as whatever tragedies she is already facing. "It's bolted from the inside. What are we going to do now?"

I stifle a sigh, waiting for practicality and human decency to squash the instinct to take the woman by the shoulders and give her a shake. This achieved, I take a step back to examine the house. There is, of course, always the window Alessia jumped from, but my appetite for scaling houses has been well and truly satisfied for the time being. I peer around the side of the house.

"How long have the servants been gone?" I ask.

Alessia frowns. "A week, or thereabouts. Why?"

I narrow my eyes, concentrating. "And when was the last time you used the canal entrance?"

"This evening, when I left for the ball."

"Did you lock it?"

Alessia shakes her head, miserably. "I don't remember."

I look around again. It's this or climbing, and it's not as though I could get any wetter. "Alright," I say. "Stay here. I'll go and have a look."

"A look at what? You're not going back in the water?"

I sit down at the edge of the canal, my legs dangling over the sides. "Afraid so."

I push off, sliding into the water with a muted sloshing noise. It takes only a few strokes to bring me within reach of the low door that opens from the side of Alessia's house onto the canal. The next part is more difficult: without a gondola to stand on, the door's latch and handle are out of reach.

There is a shallow sill at the base of the door and I gain purchase on it with my fingertips. The resistance of the water makes it easier to pull myself up than it was from the senator's window but this does nothing to soothe my muscles and they ache in protest. Why didn't I just take Alessia back to Beatrice's house? It would have been humiliating for her, I suppose, having the servants and probably the mistress of another household woken to care for her at so fraught a time, but I doubt that an extended spell of standing outside her house in cold, sodden garments is doing her any good either.

The latch is tantalisingly close to the tips of my outstretched fingers. I close my eyes. _Come on Faustina. One more push. One last burst of effort and you can rest._

Gathering my strength for one final effort, I launch myself out of the water, overcoming the sudden, sucking down-thrust on my nightdress and, stretching as hard as I can, clamp my hand around the door handle. I thrust the other hand up to meet it and, muttering a prayer, I squeeze the latch.

The door swings open, taking me by surprise. I let go of the the door handle and slip back into the water, scraping my stomach painfully against the base of the door frame. Recovering from this final - I can only hope - dousing, I struggle up into the doorway and from there to an upright position. I stand dripping in the hallway for a moment, recovering my breath.

The inside of the house is blessedly warm, at least in comparison to the night air outside. It is totally dark but, at the top of the short flight of stairs leading into the house from the canal, I locate a candle and a supply of matches on a low sideboard. I have extravagant thoughts of slipping a purse of coins to whatever servant is responsible for this miracle, then remember guiltily that they have all been dismissed. I content myself with lighting the thing, then turn to look at my surroundings.

The corridor is a grand one, designed to welcome and impress visitors arriving from the canal, while leading them to the reception rooms at the front of the house. I have been in a hundred such hallways before, but never one quite like this. It looks as though Alessia has been visited by a group of unusually meticulous thieves. The corridor is completely bare, decorated only by a series of dark rectangles indicating that long-resident paintings or tapestries have been removed. I feel a pang of sudden sadness and quicken my pace.

The entrance hall is at the end of the corridor. I locate first the grand staircase and then the heavy wooden front door, which is secured with an iron bolt. With only a modest quantity of unladylike language, I manage to fumble the bolt out of its hole, allowing the door to swing open. Alessia shivers in the doorway.

"Oh, Faustina. Thank you." She steps inside, carrying my candle, and I close the door behind her. "I'm so sorry to have put you to all this trouble."

"Not at all."

Alessia sighs. "Come on. We'll get a fire going in the drawing room and find you something dry to put on. I've only old clothes left, I'm afraid, but…" She trails off, sniffing.

I squeeze her elbow. There is no kind way to express the view that I would strip the clothes off an ancient corpse if it would get me out of this freezing nightdress, so I don't. "I'll be grateful for whatever you have, Alessia. Can I help at all?"

"I suppose you might try to light the fire while I have a look in some of these old trunks for clothes?"

She directs me to the drawing room, or what remains of it. It contains only four articles of furniture: three straight-backed and rather austere-looking chairs and a unit of shelves, which bear in total a small wooden box, three books and an empty glass. I locate a small stock of firewood and set to work piling up logs in the grate. Given the general trend that this day has followed, I half-expect that the wood will be damp or, to swing to another extreme, that I will inadvertently create a conflagration that consumes half the neighbourhood. To my relief, however, I manage to produce a respectable, restrained sort of flame that nonetheless dances cheerfully in the grate. I hold out my hands to it and feel my tension begin to thaw as the warmth spreads through me.

A few moments later Alessia appears in the doorway, now dressed in a robe of her own, with a bundle of fine but well-worn fabric in her arms.

"I've found an old nightdress and a blanket for you, if that's alright? We can hang your things in front of the fire to dry out."

I get to my feet. "That sounds wonderful, Alessia, thank you."

Alessia hands the blissfully dry items to me. "You can change in here if that suits you, I won't look."

I don't need to be told twice. While Alessia sets up a makeshift clotheshorse using one of the chairs, I peel off the sodden nightdress and get into the dry one of Alessia's. The blanket I wrap around myself like a cocoon. Never have I been so grateful for the sensation of wool on skin.


	7. Chapter 7

I take one of the chairs in front of the fire. I sit sensibly for a moment, then become uncomfortably aware of my feet. Deciding not to stand on ceremony, I pull them up onto the seat with me, enveloping them in the gorgeous embrace of the blanket. Thus comforted, I turn to look at Alessia.

She is staring into the fire. The tears of a quarter of an hour ago have abated and in their place is an emptiness that frightens me a little. I need to find out what it means.

Working an arm free of my blanket crysalis, I reach out to lay a hand on Alessia's shoulder.

"Would you like to tell me what happened now?"

Alessia sighs. "I suppose you ought to know what you've been put through all this for. God knows I can't keep it to myself any longer. I feel as though I could burst."

I give her shoulder a squeeze. "Start from the beginning," I say, "and tell me everything."

Alessia hesitates. When she speaks, however, it is with an air of rational determination. The words come out as though ready-formed and I wonder as she speaks how long she has been waiting to share this with someone.

"It was back in the summer sometime, I can't say exactly when. I was desperate. I hope you won't think me intolerable when I say this, but you are still young, Faustina, and I do not expect you to fully understand me when I say that I was desperate to find a companion in life - a husband."

"I don't think you intolerable," I murmur. Of course I _don't_ understand why anyone would be desperate to marry. I have seen enough of men to have some serious questions about why any woman would wish to tether herself to one for life. Loneliness, on the other hand, I do understand, and if Alessia thinks marriage would rid her of it then I am in no position to argue.

Alessia takes a deep breath and begins.

"My youth passed without fanfare. My family was moderately but not extraordinarily wealthy and without beauty or connections to recommend me I was an old maid before I knew it. For some time I endeavoured to accept this as my lot. You have not long been resident in Dorsoduro so you will not remember my father, who died a couple of years ago. He was unwell towards the end of his life and I threw myself into his care. Towards the end he began to forget who I was. He could often be very ill-tempered and unkind, but I refused all offers of help and suffered the sharpness of his tongue alone - perhaps out of a sense of familial duty, perhaps because it simply made me feel needed. After he died, I felt so completely alone, I didn't know what to do with myself. My neighbours have been very kind - you have seen me, of course, dining with Signora Sebastiano, even though she doesn't particularly like me-"

I am compelled to interrupt. "I don't think she dislikes you, Alessia."

Alessia shrugs. "Perhaps you are right, but I know I am not her usual choice of dinner guest. I am not much of a conversationalist, nor am I qualified to participated in the usual society gossip."

"I don't think she'd invite you to dinner if she didn't like you." I frown. "Go on, though." 

"Well, in any case, with Father gone I felt isolated and desperately alone. I lingered by the wall at the few social gatherings I was invited to attend, watching the swirling couples dance, and I came to understand, far too late, that that was what I was missing. Worst of all, there was nothing to be done about it. My window of opportunity, such as it was, had closed. The vast majority of Venice's single men are in their twenties, or even younger, and I had no hope of any of these young men looking my way when any number of beautiful young creatures clustered round them wherever they went. I was in utter despair. And then she found me."

I feel my heart sink, though I am not yet sure why. "Who?"

Alessia gives a small, rueful smile. "I don't even know her name. She calls herself the _Madrina_ - the Godmother. She told me that she could help me, that she had unique abilities, magic powers. She promised that she could get me everything I longed for." She lets out a deep, miserable sigh. "You must think me such a fool."

I shake my head. A moment ago I was toasting nicely in front of the fire, but now my blood runs cold. This is an aspect of what I do that I try my best to ignore. The fact that someone who shares my gift would use it to hurt someone chills me to the core. "No, Alessia. You're not a fool." _No more than any number of your fellow men and women_, I add, silently.

"I am. I haven't told you what happened. The _Madrina_ said that she could find me a husband, but that it would come at a price. She said magic wasn't easy, that I needed to think carefully about how important my goal was to me, about how much I would value the comfort and companionship of having a man to share my life with, because it would come at a price. I didn't hesitate: I told her anything she needed would be hers."

I gesture around us at the barren room. "And she took…?"

"Everything I had. Not all at once - I suppose she thought that might have aroused suspicion. No, she asked for money every couple of weeks, as things moved along."

"What do you mean?" I fight to keep my voice soft and gentle, even as I chafe to hear the rest of the story.

Alessia shifts in her seat. "Well, she didn't string me along solely on empty promises. There was a man."

"She introduced you to someone?"

"No - at least, not directly. I met him while dining with the widow of one of Father's friends. It was a large gathering, plenty of friends of friends, and I was sitting uncomfortably at the edge of a conversation when this wonderfully handsome man entered the room and made straight for me. Of course I was surprised, even suspicious at first. He was so lively, so amusing, and I couldn't help but wonder what he could possibly want with me. I've told you already that I have no conversation worth noting."

She pauses here to collect her thoughts and again I feel anger beginning to bubble beneath the surface of my thoughts. How can Alessia stand to think so little of herself?

Alessia continues. "Eventually, he wore down my resistance, convinced me that he loved me truly and passionately for the woman I was. And I love him - _loved _him - too. Oh, Faustina, I've never felt like this before. I've never felt more than a passing fancy for any man but him, but he has been my closest friend, everything I've ever wanted, just being near him made life seem perfect…" She breaks off, once again overtaken by sobs.

I chew my lip, unsure what to do in this fairly unfamiliar territory. Paid is etched all over Alessia's face, deep and raw. "Alessia… You don't have to tell me the rest, if you don't want to."

Alessia shakes her head, pulling herself together. "No. I need to finish."

"All right. Take your time."

Alessia wipes her eyes. "I met with the _Madrina_ often - she would come here to visit me and I told her all about my new love. She told me that I must be bold, that my relationship with him was to be the source of the happiness that she had promised me. But she said that the magic could only be maintained at great cost, cost that she would need to be recompensed for. I couldn't risk losing him. I knew that she was taking far more than I could afford, money that I was counting on to live out the rest of my life in modest comfort, but I gave it to her anyway. Niccolo was my life, he was everything - how could I even dream that I deserved happiness in this world if I were not willing to take risks to attain it?"

I realise that my hands are clenched into fists. My fingernails imprint deep crescents in my palms. Some limits are absolute. I lie about my methods but _never_ make promises I can't keep. I know others have looser morals: when I last spoke to Giacomo, for example, he was developing a method for convincing patrons that he could lead them into rebirth and cause their souls to live on forever. Not my sort of thing, but it plays to the vanity of the marks, wealthy people who can't come to terms with the mortality of such remarkable specimens as themselves. But surely it is a universal code that one should never take more from a mark than he or she can afford to give?

I take a few deep breaths, regaining my focus. "What happened next?"

Alessia rubs her eyes for a moment, then stares into the fire. I watch her face so intently that I can make out the reflection of the flames dancing in her unfocused pupils. She folds her arms tightly about her chest as though locking herself in a comforting embrace.

"I grew impatient," she says. "My love for Niccolo was strong, as he swore his was for me. But we met too infrequently, too briefly. I longed to have him all to myself, to share my life and my home with him. I shared this longing with the _Madrina_, on her last visit. She agreed that the time had come and said that she would see what could be done, in return for one final payment. This I scraped together from the dregs of my fortune, and I received in return a note advising me that I was to expect a surprise at the senator's ball that would bring an end to my months and years of yearning. Naturally, I assumed that she had been able to convince him, through whatever arcane arts she uses, to propose marriage to me tonight." She speaks this last sentence through welling tears and breaks off, burying her head in her hands.

I disentangle my limbs from the blanket, lowering my feet to the floor, and lean forward to take Alessia's hand and squeeze it in my own. "Alessia," I say, gently, "it's alright. What happened tonight? Please tell me."

Alessia lifts her head, meeting my gaze with red-rimmed eyes. "Nothing. Nothing happened."

I frown. "You mean Niccolo wasn't there?"

Alessia bites her lip, her mouth a slash of despair. "No. He was there. I met him in the ballroom. I ran over to him, so happy to see him, the happiest I've ever been in my life. I called out his name and he turned to stare at me, his face totally blank, and he asked me to remind him who I was."

"He didn't recognise you?"

"He recognised me. He just didn't remember my name." She sobs again. "He recalled the time we'd met at dinner but nothing else. His friends could see how upset I was and they tried to get me to come outside with them for some air, offered to call a doctor, but I couldn't stand it. I thought I was going to get an offer of marriage and everyone else thought I was a lunatic. And that's when it came to me. I couldn't remember him, either. I could remember the way he made me feel, how I had felt about him, but I couldn't remember a single moment we had spent together after that first conversation at that dinner. Not one." She lifts her head. "Now you must think I'm crazy too."

I can't meet her gaze. "Not as crazy as you might think."

"I feel such a fool. It was all in my head, all of it, and I was convinced for so long. I just can't believe it. It's something to do with the _Madrina_, even I can see that now. Heaven knows what she did to me… but I suppose it doesn't matter now. She's gone and so is my fortune, and I'm left with nothing. I almost wish…" She trails off again.

I am alarmed to find myself beginning to cry. Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes and when she speak again my voice cracks. I try to force the feelings down. The last thing Alessia needed was for someone to shed tears for her.

"What do you wish?" I ask, quietly.

"I wish I hadn't found out. A day ago I was ruined but I had hope. Now I'm just ruined."

I look over at the fire. It has begun to sink into embers. I'm tired, desperately tired, and sadder than I can remember feeling for a long time. "I'm so sorry, Alessia."

Neither of us speaks for perhaps a minute, then Alessia gets up.

"I can't thank you enough, Faustina, for pulling me out of the canal. I don't know how I am to carry on living, but at least I know for sure now that I don't want to die."

I stand up to face her. "I'm so glad that I was able to assist you, Alessia, please think nothing of it."

There is a moment of hesitation and then we embrace. I hug her tight, wishing that I could physically transfer some of my own luck and optimism to someone who has been so wronged by someone so much like me. It is a wrong that can't be repaired, and the thought makes me ache to the very depths of my soul.

Alessia gives a weak smile as we part. "I wish I could ask you to stay, but I'm afraid I have only the one bed left, in the servants' quarters."

I swallow. "I should be missed at breakfast anyway. I will call on you sometime tomorrow, if you like, to return the blanket and your nightdress?"

"That would be wonderful."

I shift, awkwardly. "You… you won't do anything rash in the meantime?" 

Alessia shakes her head. "You can have my word on that. Not after all I've put you through tonight."

I pull the blanket tight about my shoulders and accepted the candle that Alessia is holding out to me.

"Good night, then, Alessia."

"Good night, Faustina. And thank you."

Back in my own room, I fasten the shutters tight against the outside world, extinguish my candle and burrow deep in my bed. There are only a few precious hours left until morning, and I intend to make the most of them.


	8. Chapter 8

BENEDETTO

The book is an expensive one, handwritten and bound in leather, shipped at great expense from a contact in Padua. I toss it irritably aside: I can't concentrate. I have awoken far earlier than usual this morning and I am hardly a late riser as it is.

I get up from my seat by the window and cross, hesitant but determined, to the mirror on the other side of the room. It is the only one in my personal suite and it resides beneath a length of heavy, dark-dyed fabric. I take a moment to ready myself, as though preparation will make a difference, then lift the fabric to reveal my reflection.

There is nothing immediately offensive about it, but that is because I have yet to remove the mask. The mask is a full-face affair, woefully uncomfortable, but I wear it like armour. As I reach to remove it I feel, as I always do, the treacherous thrill of hope. _Perhaps there will be nothing to see. Perhaps this is all a bad dream_.

I bask in the feeling for a moment, but no longer. Grasping the mask tightly, I lower it from my face and force myself to stare hard at the reflected image. Somehow it shocks me anew each time I see it, though thankfully it has not reduced me to nausea and lightheadedness since the very first time. Even so, my pulse quickens and a surge of horror jolts through my body as I take it all in. I make myself stare at it for a count of ten - an improvement on the two I used to manage in earlier days - then hastily replace the mask.

I let the curtain fall and hold my hands over this artificial face as I wait for my blood to stop racing in my veins and for the urge to scream and try to run from something I cannot escape to drain away. It does, though the despair remains.

Regaining self-control, I run my hands though my hair - self-conscious, though there is no one to watch me - and lower my hands to my sides. Turning back to face the window, I note the thin rays of early-morning sunlight that are splashed across the polished floor. I am surprised to feel a rush of hope.

Today is the day.

FAUSTINA

I awaken late, which seems only fair, and lie in bed still later. Warmth and comfort pin me between the sheets, resisting my half-hearted attempts at escape and giving me time to think. Alessia's story has a grip on my mind which shows no sign of loosening.

It is difficult to say exactly what is troubling me. It is about more than just money, which I usually count among my highest priorities. Money is wonderful but replaceable. What Alessia has _really_ lost is not. I am enraged.

My moral high ground is, I know, not so very high. Perhaps that is what really stings. I know that what I do isn't right but until now it has never seemed really wrong, either. My clients can readily afford my services and I do help them, if not in the way they ask me to. What this _Madrina_ of Alessia's has done reduces the line of work to mere thievery.

Is that why this bothers me so much? Professional pride? I don't know. One thing is becoming clear, however. I need to meet this woman. I need to talk to her, to look into her eyes while she answers my challenge about her treatment of Alessia. And I need to get Alessia's money back. That much is certain.

I am reminded of someone else who seems to require my comfort and I haul myself out of bed to retrieve his letter. It is curious that I have been cast in this role all of a sudden. I can't think of anyone less well-suited to it.

I re-read my stranger's letter with a furrowed brow. After the events of last night, it seems far more serious than it did when I read it before. Here is another person who seems to have mislaid the essential commodity of hope.

I pick up my pen and begin to write.

"_Dear Friend,_

"_It sounds as though you are unhappy and I am sorry for it. I wish I knew what to say to comfort you, just as I wish I had known what to say to a friend in distress last night."_

There is a knock at the door.

"Come in!"

Carlotta eases her way respectfully into the room, effecting not to notice my dischevelled state. "Good morning, Signorina. There is a gondola here for you."

I frown. There are thousands of gondolas in Venice but this one has taken me by surprise. "I'm not expecting a gondola. I haven't got any engagements today." A glance into the looking glass mounted on my wall confirms that this is fortunate. "Are Beatrice and Signora Sebastiano having breakfast?" I add.

Carlotta shakes her head. "No, they left about quarter of an hour ago for their engagement at the Scutese house."

My eyebrows shoot towards my hairline. "What time is it? It can't be that late already?"

"About a quarter to twelve, Signorina."

I stare at her for a moment, taken aback. She coughs.

"The gondolier, Signorina? Shall I tell him that there has been a mistake?"

I nod, regaining some of my grip on current events. "Yes, thank you." 

I return my attention to the letter as she leaves. I don't know what to say. Our letters have always been so lighthearted before now but he has given me very little to respond to. In the end, I decide to give a lively account of the ball last night, omitting any personal details. He might have been there, of course - most of Venice was - but he will not have seen it quite as I did.

I have scratched a few sentences. Another knock announces Carlotta's return. I look up as she re-enters.

"I am sorry to disturb you again, Signorina Casanova, but there is a gentleman with the gondolier who insists that he has been sent for you by a Signor Bellandi. He says you should be expecting him."

I feel a flash of annoyance. "Well, you can tell him-" I break off, suddenly remembering the second letter. I pick it up, examine the seal for a moment, then break it open and begin to read.

"_Signorina Casanova,_

"_I understand that you have some expertise in the field of magic and am in need of your assistance. I am in a position to offer you significant financial remuneration. _

"_I should like to meet with you tomorrow afternoon and will send a boat to convey you from your home to mine, which is but a short distance from the city. There is no need for a response. If the arrangement is not convenient for you simply indicate as much to my agent._

"_I look forward to making your acquaintance._

"_Regards,_

"_Benedetto Bellandi"_

Well, that explains the mystery of the gondola, though I can't say I like Signor Bellandi's tone. What's all this business of "no reply needed, I will send a boat"? I am no man's plaything, least of all a stranger I don't know from Adam.

On the other hand, I like the sound of "significant financial remuneration". I am more than happy in Beatrice's household but my patron's impending marriage is looing large on the horizon. Only the most indulgent husband would permit a wife to maintain a magician as a sort of pet. Now is the time I ought to be planning for the next stage of my life. A generous cash injection would be the very thing.

The clock is ticking: I am already keeping Signor Bellandi waiting. I think guiltily of the letter for my friend and my promise to visit Alessia. There will be time enough for both this evening. I make my decision.

"Please tell the gentlemen I will be with them in five minutes."

Carlotta nods and departs once again. I move quickly, selecting one of my favourite dresses. It is a pale blue silk confection delicately brocaded at the waist and sleeves in a silver pattern of flowers and leaves. Cream-coloured lace with the consistency of spiders' web graces a low but not immodest neckline and the sleeves, the latter finishing at the elbow. I have a beautiful new pair of shoes that match it perfectly but the thought of slipping into stiff, unyielding leather after so strenuous an evening strikes unwomanly fear into her heart. Instead, I settle on some familiar soft silk mules lined with calfskin. Beatrice would have balked at them for being last year's, but I trust to my lengthy skirts to cover them. I brush out my hair as quickly as I can, tie it up and finish it with a silver comb.

The process takes a little more than five minutes but the men are still waiting when I make my appearance downstairs. The gondolier leans, disinterested, on his oar, but the other man - the agent - gives a stiff bow. He is grey-haired and slender and has a drawn, dour expression that suggests a broad disapproval of everything and everyone around him.

"Signorina Casanova, I presume?"

"You presume correctly," I reply, my voice sounding a little flat.

"I have a burchiello waiting, Signorina, if you are ready to depart?"

I nod. An entire passenger vessel chartered for this journey seems excessive but Signor Bellandi has made it clear that money is of no great concern to him. I wonder what problem he wants me to solve? And who could have recommended me? My bread-and-butter clients are older women who despair that their looks are fading and younger women who despair that they have never had them in the first place. I have helped a few young men to find the courage to propose - perhaps that is what he requires? I have been picturing him as a grey-haired old Venetian who is now settling down to enjoy the fruits of a lifetime's labours as a merchant or other businessman. Perhaps instead he is the young, orphaned son of a noble, who has inherited a fortune but not the confidence to go with it. I am suitably intrigued.

We travel by gondola as far as the Grand Canal, where the elegantly-carved wooden vessel awaits us, as promised. My serious companion pays the gondolier, exchanges a few words with one of the two buchiello's two oarsmen and we are admitted into the craft's plush interior. It quickly becomes clear that my comrade on this voyage is not a man given to conversation. Another time this would have frustrated me but, on this occasion, his stoicism suits my mood. I am able to establish from perfunctory conversation that his name is Cingolani and that he does indeed act as Signor Bellandi's agent in the city but, beyond that, his loquaciousness and my interest give out. We do not communicate again until, some time later, Cingolani happens to glance out of one of the windows and remark that we have reached our destination. I turn to follow his gaze.

The strange loneliness of the palazzo's location strikes me instantly. We are still within sight of not only Venice but much of the rest of the _Laguna Veneta_, yet perhaps it is that that serves to highlight the silence that prevails on the tiny island. The oarsmen moor the craft at a deserted jetty and Cingolani gives me his hand to help me disembark.

Once both my feet are on dry land, he indicates a gate at the top of a small flight of stone steps.

"Follow the path up to the house," he says. "Signor Bellandi is expecting you."

"Thank you," I reply. "I expect I'll be a couple of hours, not too long. Will you wait?"

Cingolani answers with a grunt, which I take to be affirmative.


	9. Chapter 9

_Warning: exposition ahead! I fear that this chapter is boring but it kind of needs to happen. Please let me know if you think I should change it!_

* * *

While the front of the house was fully visible from the water, the rear of it is encircled by a high stone wall, over which ill-tended creepers have snaked their tendrils. The gate Cingolani pointed to is of wooden construction, with a heavy iron latch, and it opens with a suitably foreboding creak when I push it. I take a moment to muster my concentration, then allow the gate to swing closed behind me.

There are steps leading downwards on the other side and I follow them into a splendid little ornamental garden. The first stretch of path, the one that led me here from the water, is overgrown but, inside, the garden has been properly cared for.

There is a centrepiece to the garden, in the form of a magnificent marble statue of entwined lovers, holding one another in a passionate embrace. The rest of the garden is split into sections by evenly-spaced paths that radiate from this centrepoint. Neatly-hoed beds in each section display flowers of different colours. Sunlight streams into the garden despite the high walls. The overall effect is very pleasant.

The wall on the far side of the garden hosts an understated but beautiful fountain. At first glance it seems almost as though Nature herself has created it, for it is composed chiefly of an arrangement of rocks. Crossing to it, however, I realise that this effect has been achieved through design and careful construction: smooth, colourful stones thoughtfully chosen and placed just so. I watch as water tumbles musically from rock to rock, then trickles into a sort of basin set into the ground. This is a treasure hidden from the casual observer: from the other side of the garden I couldn't see the mosaic that lines it. It is a thing of beauty, made from hundreds if not thousands of sparkling glass tiles - I wonder if the glass is from Murano, across the water - arranged to form a replica of the silhouette of my dear Venice, as seen from the mainland.

Something else occurs to me as I look at it. This water is the clearest and purest I have ever seen. It looks so cool, so fresh, that I am compelled to dip my hand into it, as though I need to feel it to fully appreciate it. It is as refreshing as it looks and I find that touching it sends a welcome ripple of calm through me, though not quite erasing my thoughts of Alessia's plight. On impulse, I plunge my other hand in too and draw out, in cupped palms, a tiny puddle of it, which I drink. The taste is sweet and clean.

I wipe my hands dry on my skirt and immediately regret the dark marks the water makes on it. I am just delaying the inevitable now. Perhaps I shouldn't have come. I am not ready for this meeting. I could easily have asked Cingolani to pass on my regrets and arranged to meet with Signor Bellandi another time. Even if he chose to take his business elsewhere, no doubt both of us would survive.

Perhaps he would have found himself in the company of Alessia's _Madrina_.

I shake the thought from my mind. I am here now and the only way back is to go forward. I sight another gate in a corner of this enclosed garden and plough towards it, focusing intently on my own footsteps.

This gate is a similarly creaky effort in heavy oak that yields reluctantly to my ministrations. On the other side there is an open lawn and, to my right, the palazzo proper. Resolving to waste no further time on admiring the _al fresco_ decor, I stride up to the house, eventually locating what I take to be a servants' entrance somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen. I knock.

There is an eerie silence about this house. A palazzo of this size would ordinarily be teeming with life and activity but there is something here that suggests a kind of quiet grief.

The door opens suddenly and there is a maid behind it. Her dark hair hangs limply over her face and she does not make eye contact.

"I'm here to see Signor Bellandi," I tell her. "My name is Faustina Casanova."

She subjects me to a sidelong look and ushers me in. I follow her down a corridor, out into the grand entrance hall and then across to a door, which she opens before melting away.

I turn to watch her go, somewhat puzzled, then look back to find a man waiting for me in an ostentatious drawing room. Two delicate china cups filled with steaming coffee sit on a low table. The man turns to face me and I am mildly surprised to find that he is wearing a mask: white, with a long beak. I suppose respect his commitment to Carnevale, though it seems a little cumbersome to be wearing about the home. I decide not to devote too much of my limited energy to wondering about it. Bellandi is clearly an eccentric and such is his right. I am here for his money, not to understand him.

"Signor Bellandi?" I ask, dropping a brief curtsey in case he likes that sort of thing.

"Ah, Signorina Casanova. Welcome." His voice, though muffled by the mask, is deep and pleasing to listen to. "I apologise for the unusual manner of your arrival, but I wanted to get you here quickly and discreetly. I am anxious that few people learn of my predicament."

I give him my most gracious smile. "Not at all, Signor. I can assure you that discretion is something I take a lot of pride in."

"Please, have a seat. Would you care for coffee?"

"Thank you, yes." I sit down, pleased to note that he is among the more courteous eccentrics. As he makes himself comfortable, I take a moment to see what I can discover in his mind - difficult, without being able to see his eyes, but not impossible. I concentrate for a moment and find fear, pride and even a note of sexual interest in me. This is off the table, of course - even without his eccentricities, a dalliance with a client would muddy the waters hopelessly - but it is nice to know. This much is relatively close to the surface but I sense that delving deeper will not be easy, since his mind is not a weak one.

I reach for one of the coffee cups. "Well, Signor, perhaps you would like to get straight down to business. How can I be of assistance?"

Signor Bellandi clears his throat. "Very well, I won't dance around the facts, since you're the one with the expertise. I am under a curse."

Practice enables me to refrain from raising my eyebrows. Perhaps his mind is weaker than I thought. I take a sip of coffee. "What kind of curse?"

He fiddles with his coffee cup, sliding it slowly from one hand to the other, and I notice for the first time that his hands are covered with black velvet gloves. "It is a disfigurement," he says, eventually. "One I cannot bear others to see, hence the mask."

I nod, sipping more coffee to avoid rushing my response. It is beginning to fall into place now: he must have heard about my supposed arcane ability to restore beauty. He is my first male client for this service and I cannot decide whether or not to be surprised. "This disfigurement," I ask, slowly, "is it something you were born with, or something that has only recently occurred?"

"Recent," is the concise reply.

"And do you know how it happened, how you came to be under this curse?"

He looks away for a moment and I have the opportunity to study the mask's striking profile. "It is this island," he responds, at length. "Something is wrong with it. It gets into the blood, like a disease, and no amount of bloodletting will cure it. It's the water, the water on this island is subject to some evil influence. Don't worry," he adds, "the coffee is made with water shipped over from the city. That's all we drink here now, though we found out too late."

It is my turn to look away, now. I don't trust my face not to give away my thoughts. _It's in the water? _This is nonsense of a degree I haven't come across before. I decide to learn more. "Is it just you? Did anyone else drink this tainted water?"

"Just me and some of the servants, since it happened. I sent the others away but I have had to keep all those affected here with me. They can't leave the island"

I scratch the side of my nose, thoughtfully. I try to think of a delicate way to ask my next question but there isn't one. "Is that because… Are the servants disfigured too?"

He shakes his head. "No. Just me."

"But they can't leave the island?"

"No. I can't explain it but all of us feel a force acting on us, something that keeps us here."

I don't think to reign in my incredulity until it is too late. "You're trapped here by a feeling?"

"It's more than that." I wish I could see his face because his voice tells me nothing. "The feeling is strong but one man - Nardi, my valet - resisted it and tried to make his escape. His body was found in front of the house, with no sign of what killed him. I don't know what power keeps us here but I know that there is no escape until the curse is broken."

I need a moment to take this in. I had not expected an actual death to feature in his story. This raises the stakes a little. The curse is nonsense, of course it is, but it will be much harder to convince Bellandi of this with an actual death cementing the delusion. And what did the poor man really die of?

I decide to change tack. "So, how did you come to be under this curse?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know. I didn't even believe in magic until it happened. I got Nardi to bring me a glass of water one morning and when I looked in the mirror…"

"It had happened?"

"Exactly."

"I see." My head begins to throb. So much of this doesn't make sense. Then again, it doesn't have to. I don't need to understand _why_ he believes this nonsense. I just need to get him to stop. "So, you want me to find a way to break the curse?"

He stands up, crosses to the window and looks out. There is a moment of portentous silence before he speaks again. "Not exactly," he says. "I know what needs to be done. I just need your help to accomplish it."

The plot thickens. "What is it?" I ask.

He hesitates yet again. "I'm not sure I can say."

I keep my tones as gentle as possible but cannot quite conceal the note of impatience in them. "I will need to know, if you want me to help you."

"Of course." He looks at me and then back out of the window, the great beak swinging round as he moves. "It's just that it's a matter of some delicacy. I need a woman to fall in love with me."

I cough to disguise a snort. The method is not subtle and a small quantity of coffee enters my nasal passages as a result. Luckily, I manage to cover the lower portion of my face with a handkerchief before he looks at me again. "I see," I say, before blowing my nose as discreetly as possible. "And exactly what do you want me to do to meet this requirement?"

"Well, I understand that you are quite well-connected in Venice. I had hoped that you might be willing to take on the role of facilitator, as it were, and introduce to me a young lady who might be suitable."

I turn away for a moment under the pretext of pocketing my handkerchief. I take the opportunity to pull a particularly expressive face at the far wall. Looking back, I hesitate, taking a moment to phrase my response. I'm not sure I can help him. Given time I might be able to rummage around in this eccentric's mind and join up one or two of the parts that seem to have come loose. Apparently, however, this would not cure what ails him.

"Signor Bellandi, I'm afraid that you may have misunderstood what it is I do."

"You think the task impossible?" His voice is dull and crushed and I begin to feel a little sorry for him. To him, the curse is very real. I wonder what that must feel like.

"For me, Signor, yes. I'm sorry."

Bellandi starts to say something but he is interrupted by a knock at the door. It is the maid who showed me in. Bellandi excuses himself then leaves the room, striding so quickly that he is gone before I think to make my own excuses.

I am left sitting, agitated and alone. I have apologised and explained I cannot help: there is really no further business for me here. Something about this place makes me feel ill at ease.

After what seems like an age, Bellandi returns, without the maid.

"My staff saw you drink from the fountain," he says.


	10. Chapter 10

BEATRICE

Aunt Ersilia watches me closely on the gondola ride to the Scutese house. I pretend to ignore her, reclining at an ungraceful angle in my seat with my arms folded across my chest, glaring at the ripples that spread away from the boat as it cuts through the water.

"What's the matter, _bella_?" She leans over me, her voice heavy with concern. "Are you unwell again?"

"No," I sigh. "I'm fine." I am already tired of everyone fussing over me. All I did was faint and suddenly everyone seems to think I am at death's door. I think it was the dress I was wearing last night. It is the most beautiful gown I have ever had but it is heavy and requires my corset to be pulled excessively tight. I don't want to say this to Aunt Ersilia, though, because she will probably stop me from wearing it again.

She rests a hand on my knee. "We can go home if you like. We will send a note giving your regrets to Matteo and you can meet him in a few days instead."

It's a tempting idea. I don't want to meet Matteo Scutese and I certainly don't want to marry him. I'd give anything in the world for the stupid Scutese family to leave Venice and never come back. But there is no sense in delaying the inevitable. A few days of lying in my bed, bored out of my skull and pretending to be ill, wouldn't alter the fact that I am to be denied any choice about my own future.

"No," I say. "It's fine. Let's just go."

Aunt Ersilia leans back in her seat again. "If that's what you want. But I do hope you're not planning to behave this way once we get to Signor Scutese's house. Matteo is a good match for you. Your parents did very well. And he's a handsome boy, by all accounts. I do think you might try to be a little grateful that you are to be so well provided for."

"I don't need to be provided for," I mutter, but Aunt Ersilia has turned to examine the courtyard gardens lining the Grand Canal and doesn't hear me.

I wonder what Faustina would do in this situation. I often wish I were more like her. Well, not poor, obviously, or with friends like that Chiara girl, who's been engaged so often that the only men who will look at her now are foreigners new to Venice. And I wouldn't want to be _persona non grata_ at some of the best houses, the way Faustina is, because of her libertine brother. Actually, I really wouldn't care to be that much like Faustina. But I envy her freedom. If anyone tried to tell Faustina who to marry she would just laugh at them, no matter who they were. I wish I could do that.

I _don't_ need to be provided for. Well, not exactly. I know my father was very rich and left me enough money to live on quietly for the rest of my life, if I wanted to. But it would be a dull life: no new gowns or shoes and probably nowhere to wear them even if I could afford them. I would be like Signorina Agosti across the canal, all alone in a big house with hardly any social engagements to look forward to. That's not what I want. I want a husband and a family - but I want to choose him for myself.

We have left the Grand Canal and are moving through the central district of San Marco, close to the Basilica. We finally moor outside a house that is easily the handsomest of its neighbours, standing proudly even among some of the grandest palazzos in the city. Our gondolier offers his arm to help me off the boat and I feel a little glimmer of hope as I step onto the pavement.

We are greeted at the door by a distinguished-looking manservant. Aunt Ersilia is the first to speak.

"Please tell your master that Signora Sebastiano is here with Beatrice."

We are shown into a sumptuous drawing room. Even if my aunt had not told me so, it would be clear that the Scutese family are wealthy. Portraits of family members, rendered exquisitely in oils, line every wall, and every item of furniture is expansive and ornate. A man and a woman of around Aunt Ersilia's age stand to greet us as we enter. The woman smiles warmly. She is tall and elegant, with well-defined cheekbones and shallow wrinkles about her eyes and mouth that seem to suggest that she smiles often and generously. She reminds me a little of my own mother.

"Signora Sebastiano," she says, "it's so good to see you!"

"The pleasure is all mine," Aunt Ersilia smiles.

"Of course you know my husband." Signora Scutese gestures for him to join her.

"Welcome, Signora." Signor Scutese shares his wife's look of refinement and her cordiality, though he is not as friendly. Reluctantly, though, I can feel myself warming to both of them.

I feel a hand at my elbow and Aunt Ersilia tugs me gently forward, into the limelight.

"Allow me to introduce my niece. This is Beatrice."

Signora Scutese moves forward and seizes my hand, clasping it warmly. "You're such a beauty!" she exclaims. "You're a credit to your parents - and to your aunt, of course. We're delighted to meet you."

I can feel Aunt Ersilia's eyes on me. "I'm delighted to meet you, too."

Signora Scutese studies my face, smiling, then abruptly looks up over my head. "Here he is now. Matteo, this is Beatrice. Beatrice, this is our son, Matteo."

Suddenly afraid, I turn to face my destiny.

He is beautiful. That's the only way I can describe it. Matteo is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

He is tall, a head taller than me - Aunt Ersilia has always said I am "pleasantly petite" - and broad shouldered, with olive skin and dark hair with just a hint of an unruly curl. His clothes are in the very latest style, well-made, and they suit him perfectly. When I first look at him his expression is a little stiff, but on meeting my gaze he lights up in a smile and I feel my heart flutter in my chest. His warm brown eyes hold my gaze for what seems like an age and I find myself searching them, a kind of desperation growing inside me, yearning to know whether his thoughts are anything like mine.

Aunt Ersilia nudges me. "Beatrice!"

I blink and the spell is broken. "It's nice to meet you, Matteo," I stammer, quickly, almost tripping over his name.

His smile widens a little. "You too, Beatrice."

Signor and Signora Scutese and Aunt Ersilia exchange meaningful glances. Signora Scutese coughs.

"Do take a seat," she says. "There is much to discuss."

I let most of the conversation wash over me as the adults talk. Although their discussion is about me and Matteo, little is really said about either of us. They talk about my father and how he and Signor Scutese used to do business together, about where the wedding should be held, how the money will be entailed, the dowry my parents left for me. It is like the sound of water slapping the sides of a canal as a gondola passes or the shouting of traders and urchins in the street, or any of the other myriad sounds that are part of the backdrop in Venice. I am looking at Matteo and Matteo is looking at me.

"Matteo, perhaps Beatrice would like to see the garden?"

We both jump at our names and turn to look at Signora Scutese, who spoke. Aunt Ersilia gives me a significant look.

"I'd love to," I say, quickly.

Matteo holds out an arm, raises his eyebrows and cocks his head in invitation. I slip my hand around his elbow and follow him as though in a dream, floating and a little unsteady, but unafraid.

He leads me out though a door into the fresh air and a pleasant courtyard garden. Of course we cannot be left alone: the garden is visible from the sitting room where the Scuteses received us and I can feel three pairs of eyes burning into the back of my neck, but then Matteo leads me to a little stone loveseat by the water and I forget all about it.

We sit in silence for a few moments, then Matteo is the first to speak.

"You're not exactly what I expected."

Disappointment grips me by the throat. "What do you mean?"

Matteo meets my gaze steadily and and gives a quirky little half-smile that makes me feel as though I could melt. "Well, perhaps you will think me immature, but I have to confess that I was unhappy about the prospect of meeting you. I feel I am too young to be married."

I smile back, feeling a little flush come to my cheeks. "I don't think you're immature."

Matteo leans in. "There is so much I wanted to do before marriage, so much I wanted to experience. And I feared - you'll hate me for saying this - I feared that my parents had betrothed me to some unbearable girl with a face like a fish. But you-" He draws back, as though to get a better view. "I hope you don't think I'm being forward when I say that you are easily the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

"Matteo!" I exclaim, sure that my face must be glowing pink. My aunt and Matteo's parents would have conniptions if they could hear us now. Personally, I am wondering if these words, spoken by the handsomest man in Christendom, might not be the prettiest I have ever heard.

Matteo leans back, his smile widening. "So, what do you think? Shall we let them announce our engagement?"

I lower my lashes a little, a teasing smile spreading across my lips. "And what kind of husband will you be, Matteo? I'd like to know what I'm getting into."

Matteo spreads his arms. "The very best, of course. We will honeymoon in Paris, where you shall turn the head of the king himself in some of the finest gowns the fashion houses there have to offer. Then back here to Venice, so that you can be close to your aunt, if you wish it, and our reputation will rise as one of the great Venetian families. Does that suit you?"

I feel myself beaming. "Yes," I say, softly. "I think that will suit me."

Matteo leans in. I think about propriety, about Aunt Ersilia and Matteo's parents watching from the window… and then I think about Matteo's lips. They look so soft, so warm, so desperately inviting. I can't resist them. I lean in and meet them with my own.

I meant for it to be a chaste peck but at the first tingling contact between them I know I can't stop at just that. His hands moved around me, pulling me into his embrace and, before I know what I'm doing, my own follow suit. I hold him tightly, afraid that if I set him free, even for a moment, this exquisite and delicious feeling might be lost for good.

And then, just as I savour what might have been the most perfect moment of my life, the world seems to turn fuzzy white and my body feels weak. The sensation I felt yesterday sweeps over me again and I lose consciousness.

Before everything fades, I hear Matteo call my name.


	11. Chapter 11

_My favourite chapter so far! Hope you like it!_

* * *

FAUSTINA

I get slowly to my feet, my gaze fixed on Bellandi's mask and its impassive expression. Sharp eyes glitter at me through the mask's sunken eye holes. He takes a step towards me.

"Is it true?" he asks. "Did you drink from the fountain?"

The situation is so ridiculous that I should be laughing but something in his voice has me worried. I lie on impulse. "No, of course not. Why would I drink from a fountain?" I can hear the uncertainty in my own voice. That falsehood was not up to my usual standards.

He shakes his head, softly. "Signorina, I don't think you understand. If you've drunk the water from this island…"

It's too late now to try and erase the curse from his mind. It is rooted too deep and could take hours of careful work under the _thrall_ to extract, even under optimum conditions. At present, I suspect that conditions in both his mind and mine are looking at "optimum" through a large telescope.

There is one other thing I can try. I fix his eyes with my own and make my voice as soothing as I can. "Signor Bellandi, there is no need for this. I did not drink from the fountain. Your servants must have been mistaken." For a second, it works. Bellandi's mind falls still and I reach in. I can hear the conversation with the maid, I come so close to touching it - and then Bellandi drops his gaze. I exhale slowly, defeated.

"Signorina Casanova, I'm sorry. I cannot in good conscience allow you to leave this island, knowing that the consequence will be your death."

I feel my blood run cold. "Do you mean to keep me here against my will?" I long to rip off the mask and see his face. I could cope with whatever deformity he is concealing, I just need to see the expression on his face, to understand exactly how much danger I am in.

"Signorina, please understand - it's for your own protection."

I can feel panic rising now. "I appreciate your concern, I really do, but I think I'll take my chances."

"Signorina-"

I can stand it no longer. I lunge forward, ducking under the arm that he puts out to prevent me and hurtling towards the door through which I entered. I wrench it open and run, across the perfect lawn, through the first gate, past the stupid fountain and through the second, where I am drawn up short on the steps to the jetty.

The _burchiello_ has gone.

"No!" Scanning the sea, I pick it out, moving slowly but inexorably as it fades towards the city. "Come back! Please, come back!" I wave frantically, idiotically, but they can't hear me now. They wouldn't turn back if they could.

Signor Bellandi is at my shoulder, framed by the gateway. "I dismissed it, Signorina. I'm sorry."

"_Stronzo!_" I scream at him, my voice cracking. "You bastard! Let me go!"

He is silent for a moment, though I think I detect a deep exhalation behind the mask. "I will have a room prepared for you." He goes to leave but I grab his arm.

"You will do no such thing!"

He pulls free. "I'm sorry, Signorina, but there is no alternative. For either of us."

Night is falling. I sit on the edge of a bed with ornately-carved woodwork and silk sheets, staring out of the window. Outside, the sun sets over the silhouette of the city. I don't know whether to scream myself hoarse or cry into one of the pillows.

Thoughts of Alessia are troubling me the most. I promised to go and see her today and today is almost over. I hate to break a promise and breaking one to someone so troubled at so crucial a time seems intolerably cruel.

A covered dish conceals a meal that the maid brought me, not long after I was incarcerated here. I stab at it half-heartedly, the flavours barely registering as I eat, then lie back on the bed and stare up at the vaulted ceiling. I had intended to think of a plan but the bed is comfortable and exhaustion suddenly overwhelms me. I fall into a troubled sleep.

I wake up in darkness. The house is silent but someone has been in to close my curtains. I wince at that. I have managed to cure Beatrice's servants of the habit of sneaking in while I am sleeping and had almost forgotten that so many nobles apparently demand it. I feel my way to the window and throw them open again. A layer of dust sloughs off and nearly chokes me: it seems that this room is seldom used. Fortunately, no one seems to have been awoken by my coughs.

A thin, watery light has begun to seep across the sky, hinting at sunrise. The water around the island is still. Venice seems close enough to touch.

Freedom beckons.

I consider the window. It is more accommodating, size-wise, than the one offered by the senator's upper chamber but I decide against it. Last night's escape was a victory for luck rather than planning and I can't trust to that again. Besides, I have had enough of high-risk, high-altitude hijinks for the time being. What would suit me better is a nice silent creep downstairs followed by a swift bolt across the garden to the jetty.

From there, I intend to swim. It's not a perfect plan but no risk, real or imagined, is going to keep me on this island for a minute longer than necessary.

Oh, hell. Even in my own mind this seems ridiculous. But I will not actually be attempting to swim all the way to the edge of the city. There will be boats on the water, merchants ferrying goods over to trade. All I have to do is to get out far enough to attract their attention.

The first part of this plan is all that I had hoped for and I reach the garden without incident or challenge. My eyes have adjusted to the dark now. On the jetty, I give the water a baleful stare, remembering my involuntary ablutions of the previous night, then strip down to my underthings. These nocturnal swims are becoming a habit.

I perch on the edge of the jetty, sinking my legs into the water up to the calves. Before sliding in, I take a moment to look up at the sun-streaked sky and wonder what, specifically, I am being punished for. There is plenty in my life to give a narrow-minded deity pause for thought: it would be nice to know exactly what has tipped me over the edge.

I tip myself forward and the water parts with a sloshing sound to admit me. Swimming in open water is very different to floundering semi-effectually in a canal and I am reluctantly compelled to admit that my skills have dulled a bit since I used to swim in the sea with my brothers and sisters as a child. Still, I don't have time to doubt myself. I strike forward in a strange, hybrid stroke, scooping the water away from my front with wide-spread arms and kicking it back with my feet. My progress is reasonably quick, if unsteady, and I slowly find a rhythm. Thrust and kick, thrust and kick. My muscles loosen up and for several, blissful minutes I feel as though I have been doing this all my life.

I managed a fleeting glimpse over my shoulder and am pleased to note that the island is shrinking into the background behind me. To the front, however, Venice seems no closer. Thrust and kick, thrust and kick. It's beginning to take its toll now. My muscles ache in protest at this departure from their usual routine, which contains nothing more strenuous than a brisk walk. Parts I rarely think about are beginning to scream.

I don't know quite how far I have swum but it is clear that it isn't enough. The water in my field of vision - and there is lots of it - is conspicuously free of boats.

No one is going to rescue me.

Panic begins to set in. What was I thinking? How could I have imagined, even for a moment, that I would survive this? What aspect of this situation, exactly, is better than staying on the island?

I thrash helplessly, my limbs starting to grow heavy. "Help!" I scream. "Help!" But, of course, there's no one to hear. I'm going to die. After everything I've done, all the odds I've overcome and scrapes I've talked my way out of, I'm going to drown in the _Laguna Veneta_ because of an unhinged nobleman and a poorly-conceived escape plan.

I'm more disappointed than anything else.

Just as I prepare for the cold embrace of death, I feel instead the sensation of strong arms hooked under my shoulders. I am lifted bodily over the side of a boat and left spluttering on the floor.

A firm hand nudges me onto my back.

"Are you alright?" It is more of a bark than a concerned enquiry, not exactly what I would have hoped for in a rescuer but I am in no position to be choosy.

I claw sodden hair out of my face before responding. "Yes, Signor, _grazie_. I- oh." I stare, hand frozen at the side of my face, at the figure standing over me. A mask stares back, not beaked this time but still white: cold and impassive. I groan. "You!"

Dark eyes blaze through the mask holes. "Of course it's me. Whom were you expecting? Is there someone else who usually attends your suicide attempts?"

The remark stings. I have half a mind to plunge straight back into the water but, finding at least _some_ presence of mind, note that the sea around us is deserted. In my exhausted state, there is no chance that I will last long enough for another boat to come by.

It seems Signor Bellandi was right after all. My choice is between him and death.

I glower at him. "You've got a boat."

He stares back at me, eyes shadowed. "Yes. When I'm not using it to rescue stupid women at all hours of the night, it's sometimes used by my agents to carry out my orders in the city."

I fold my arms. Now that my anger has started to abate, the cold morning breeze is beginning to gain access to my body. Bellandi reaches under his seat and takes out a blanket, which he hands to me. Stubbornness and pride compel me to decline but self-preservation wins out. I take it from him and wrap it around myself, grateful for the second time in as many days for delicious warmth of dry fabric against cold, wet skin.

"Thank you," I grunt, less than graceful. He is wearing a nightshirt. He had time to put on a mask but not to dress? I glance downwards: his hands are gloved, too. Does he sleep with his face and hands covered? It seems the man's manifold eccentricities run far deeper than anything I have seen before.

Bellandi reaches for the oars. To my disappointment, however, he does not immediately begin to row.

"Why did you try to leave?" he asks. "I warned you what would happen."

I open my mouth to let fly any number of angry responses but a thought strikes me. "Why did you come after me? Aren't you putting _yourself_ at risk?"

Bellandi's grip tightens on the oars and he begins to manoeuvre the boat. "I came, Signorina, because I knew you would be in danger and honour demanded that I try to assist you. I am, after all, partly to blame for your having come under the influence of the curse and did not feel that I could, in good conscience, allow you to come to harm. I begin to sense, however," he adds, giving a little extra violence to his now rhythmic strokes with the oars, "that any efforts in that direction are doomed to failure, since you seem determined to take as little care as possible for your own preservation. Tell me, what do you do in Venice? Is it just near death experiences wall-to-wall or do you take a little time now and then to relax with a minor injury or two?"

My jaw tightens. "I came here to help you," I point out.

"Yes, and you've ended up endangering both our lives. I must recommend you to some of my business contacts, I could do with having some of my competitors bumped off."

I feel my whole body shaking with surprising violence, and not just from the cold. I cannot tolerate this any longer. "Enough is enough, Signor Bellandi. I demand that you allow me to return home. I do not propose to suffer through another day of this preposterous farce."

Bellandi lets out a frustrated sigh. "I don't see how I can make this any clearer to you. If you leave the island, you will die. It is a blessing that we have both survived this far away from it and I do not intend to linger here arguing with you while the effects catch us up. We will return to the island and you will stay there for your own safety, is that clear?"

Something inside me bursts. "No, it is not clear! I refuse to stay on that godforsaken spit of land with you for an hour longer, much less eternity! There is no magic that will cause me to expire in an instant if I leave, hasn't the fact that we're out on the water proven that to you?! This curse is a fantasy, nonsense that some charlatan has drilled into your soft, gullible mind, and I will not surrender my freedom to you as a result!"

Bellandi allows the oars to rest. When he speaks, his voice is cold, the syllables clipped with icy anger. "If this is your view of magic, Signorina, might I ask exactly how you were ever intending to assist me in breaking the curse in the first place?"

"By showing you it never existed!" I know I've said too much but I can't stop myself. The words tumble out unbidden - and why should I stop? What difference does it make now if he knows the truth? "I mean, for heaven's sake, you have the credulity of a child! You're imprisoned by your own stupidity, not magic. And as for finding someone to fall in love with you... Why don't you just hire a courtesan like anyone else? There must be a woman somewhere in Venice who'd stay quietly in your palazzo for as long as you liked as long as you kept her in dresses and baubles, but I am not she."

Bellandi starts rowing again. "I must agree with you wholeheartedly, Signorina Casanova. If I were looking to take a beautiful woman as a professional lover, I would certainly not choose you. You fulfil neither requirement."

"What?"

"You are neither beautiful nor professional. Even as a confidence trickster, which I take to be your primary occupation, you are unskilled. I can only imagine that any money you have made in this fashion in the past has been charitably given by people who were embarrassed for you."

I shudder, every muscle in my body so tense I could hardly move. I snarl at him through gritted teeth. "Just let me go home."

"No."

We complete the journey back to the palazzo in silence. With the boat moored, Bellandi offers his hand to help me out but I ignore him and disembark alone, as to show him that his infuriating attempts to safeguard my personal well-being are misplaced and unwanted.

At the entrance to the house, I stop short, wheeling round to stare Bellandi squarely in his artificial face. "I have some demands."

"I see. And what exactly is it about your situation that suggests to you that you are in a position to make demands?"

"You're a man of honour, aren't you? Don't you think that a lady caught up an imaginary curse while visiting you has the right to a few small luxuries from home?"

"I don't recall the scenario being dealt with explicitly by the code of chivalry, but go on."

"You must allow me to write a letter to my patron explaining that I am to be kept away from the city until further notice and to ask that some of my personal effects are sent on." I thought for a moment. "In fact, I want to write to another friend as well. And I want my letters delivered to Venice unopened and in a timely manner."

Bellandi waves a hand. "Fine. If bringing a few trinkets out here will stop you from hurling yourself into large bodies of water at unreasonable hours, I suppose it's a small price to pay. I'll have ink and so forth brought to your room." He stifles a yawn. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I intend to resume my rest. I take it you have no further plans for the morning that involve swimming?"

I shake my head. "Don't worry, I'll go back to my cell like a good little prisoner."

"I am glad to hear it. Good morning, Signorina Casanova." He gives me a brief, mocking bow and departs, making for the stairs at speed.

Reluctant to do immediately as I have been told, I linger for a moment, contemplating the possibility of having a nose round the house. Sensation changes my mind, however, as my body reminds me that I am soaked and barely dressed. I trudge up the stairs after him, cutting a fairly pathetic figure with the trailing blanket and drips of water in my wake.


	12. Chapter 12

FAUSTINA

Back in my room, I find that a fire has been lit in the grate and huddle up to it thankfully. I am soon joined, via a respectful knock, by the maid. I seem to see a lot of this maid. Perhaps she has been assigned to me in particular. I'm not sure how I feel about this arrangement, given that it was she who told Bellandi about my drink from the fountain. Nonetheless, she is carrying the promised writing supplies so I thank her. She meets my gaze for a moment. It's the first time she has looked at me and it takes me by surprise, though I suppose my nerves are not at their most resilient right now. A moment later, she is gone.

There is a bowl of warm water waiting on a washstand and a set of dry clothes has been laid out for me on the bed. They are a man's clothes, of fine design and fabrics. I balk a little at the notion of wearing Bellandi's clothes but, with no way of knowing what had happened to those I abandoned on the jetty, there is little choice. I peel off the wet things and hang them in front of the fire, then wash myself all over. At some point I will have to ask for a bath to be drawn but this will do for now. Bellandi's clothes fit me satisfactorily. I am eager to see what I look like in them but several minutes' searching fails to produce a mirror. This is strange, though hardly the strangest thing I have encountered in recent memory.

I turn my attention to the writing supplies the maid brought. There is a small writing desk in a corner and I smooth out a sheet of the fine paper over it. I recognise it from Bellandi's note. There is a knife for the quill and I sharpen it to my liking before dipping it in the jar of good-quality ink.

"_Dearest Beatrice,"_ I write, then hesitate. This is not straightforward. My first instinct is to write something along the lines of "please send help". I ponder the consequences of this for a moment. Beatrice and Signora Sebastiano would be both unwilling and unsuitable to come to my rescue in person but perhaps they could send a small army of servants over. How far would Bellandi go, I wonder, to save me from the imagined threat of unseen forces? I lose focus for a moment, imagining myself as a sort of Helen of Troy, the subject of an all-out siege.

It's no good, of course. To get their assistance I would have to get past Signora Sebastiano's sense of propriety. The first thing she is likely to want to know, before doing anything dramatic and public, is what I am doing, unescorted, in the house of a man I don't know. I doubt I can answer that to her satisfaction. No, Beatrice can't help me - not for the time being, at least.

I write her a note anyway, apologising for my sudden disappearance and explaining that I had been called away to assist a friend in crisis but hoped to be back soon. I ask her to pass on my apologies and well-wishes to her aunt, too. It's not ideal and will likely tarnish my standing with her somewhat, but if I can get out of here sooner rather than later I might get away with it. Finally, I explain that the man delivering the note - I assume it will be Cingolani - is there to collect some of my things and ask that he be allowed into my room to do so. The thought of the dour gentleman accessing my private quarters is not one that particularly appeals to me but there is no other way to get hold of my clothes.

Putting the letter aside to let the ink dry, I reach for a second sheet of paper. This one I address to Alessia. There is no formula for writing to someone you just saved from a suicide attempt to explain that you couldn't visit them because you're embroiled in some sort of pseudo-supernatural intrigue, but I try my best. Wracking my brains for something I can do for her at this distance, I suggest that she might go and visit Beatrice and Signora Sebastiano, then add a postscript to Beatrice's letter to the same effect. I can't explain _why_ I want them to entertain her, of course, but I hope they will allow me to trespass a little further on their good natures.

The final note is a brief one and I address it to Chiara. Hers is the only one that I head with Bellandi's address.

"_I've run into some trouble with a client and am stuck here for the time being. Won't bore you with the details. I may need your help with my escape plan. You know, once I've thought of it. Please be ready!_

"_Your friend, Faustina."_

I'm not really sure why I don't want to reveal the exact nature of my plight to Chiara. Sadly, I suspect it's vanity. Chiara looks up to me, which is at once a compliment, a responsibility and a sad indictment of today's youth. It is utterly ridiculous that I have ended up in this situation and I'm embarrassed about it. I am reminded of something Bellandi said yesterday: "I am anxious that few people learn of my predicament."

It seems we have something in common after all.

I fold and seal the letters, carefully spotting them with sealing wax, and mull Signor Bellandi over in my mind. It occurs to me that I am not particularly afraid. Indeed, my overriding emotion since this ordeal began has been frustration. I do not feel threatened by him. His concern for me - though misplaced and delivered with increasing sarcasm - seems genuine. Even now that he knows me for what I am, he hasn't shown any aggression, nor any desire to harm me. I suppose there's always the possibility that the food is poisoned but that seems like a roundabout way to kill me when he could easily have let me drown.

I find this idea sufficiently soothing for sleepiness to fog my mind once more and, since I have no other engagements, I crawl back into bed for a nap.

BENEDETTO

Despite what I told Signorina Casanova, I am making no attempt to salvage my ruined night of sleep. I am wide awake, wearing down the polished wooden floors in my personal suite with fevered pacing.

This is not the state of affairs I was looking forward to when I wrote to the _highly-recommended_ Faustina Casanova. The woman is infuriating. That she has the unmitigated gall to march into a stranger's house with the intent to deceive him for profit simply beggars belief. She looks so… well, not innocent, precisely. There is a sharp, knowing look in those eyes and something about the way her mouth quirks up at one side. She looks as though she knows something no one else does and intends to hold on to the information for as long as it amuses her to do so. And as for those curves… but I'm getting distracted.

As my anger subsides, I feel panic rush to take its place. Perhaps writing to Faustina was more of a last resort than a workable solution, but at least it was a source of hope. Now, there is nothing. Worse than that: that Casanova menace is now a fixture in my household.

The one thing I needed to make my misery complete: an insufferable female of the criminal classes resident on the premises.

Trying to shake loose some of these gloomy thoughts, I ring the bell. After a few moments, the maid comes in. There is something that unnerves me about her. If truth be known, I have considered _all_ options in escaping my present torment, including the female members of my remaining staff. There are only two of these and one, a cook, is married to the butler. This specimen is the other and yet, for reasons I cannot quantify, a minute spent in her presence leaves me with a squirming feeling of unease deep in my stomach. I can't remember when she joined the household - no doubt something the housekeeper didn't want to trouble me with - and, under ordinary circumstances, I would probably have had a word in the ear of one of the more senior servants to see if she couldn't be found a position elsewhere, but she is part of the curse now and therefore another fixture.

"You will see that dinner is served in the dining room this evening, not brought to my chambers as usual. Signora Casanova will be joining me."

The maid bows her head and withdraws. I look after her for a few moments, then push her from my mind.

I am forced to concede, at least within the confines of my own mind, that Faustina Casanova has made for a rare change in my household. The idea makes me sick. Has the isolation of the last few months really rendered me so desperate for human interaction that the company of a cheap swindler is really preferable to my own?

It appears so.


	13. Chapter 13

FAUSTINA

I spend most of the day in my room, alternately dozing and trying to think of a way to escape. Now that I know about the boat there are a few more avenues of thought to pursue, but I am wary. Bellandi's grip on reality might be shaky but he's not a fool - and with servants at his command he has me outnumbered. I wouldn't give you any sort of odds on me being able to just stroll up to that boat and row off in it. I've never even tried to row a boat and the easy confidence that would usually lead me to assume I could do it if I tried has been shaken somewhat by my spectacular failure to swim to freedom.

Lunch is brought to me by a smartly-dressed butler, who yields to my questions about his master and the supposed curse with nothing more illuminating than a placid "I really couldn't say, Signorina," but seems nice enough. For dinner, however, I am summoned downstairs.

I contemplate refusing just to be contrary but my stomach is rumbling. I hope he doesn't expect me to dress. He'll have to lend me something smarter of his own if he does.

I find Bellandi waiting for me in the drawing room, perusing a hefty book. He has changed into the beaked mask he wore yesterday, lending credence to the strange notion that he does indeed reserve the one I saw this morning for sleeping in. I wonder if he has a special one for bathing in, too?

He looks up as I enter. "Good day, Signorina Casanova," he says, almost polite. I don't expect it to last.

"Good day, Signor Bellandi. I have written my letters. I trust you have arranged for someone to deliver them and to collect my things?"

He raises an eyebrow at my impudence but holds out his hand to accept the letters. He puts them on the table beside him without looking at them. "Cingolani will attend to it in the morning."

"Thank you."

There is an uneasy silence. I can feel his gaze on me.

Finally, he says "Shall we go into the dining room?"

I follow him through a couple of doorways and into a grand dining room. A row of ornate arched windows overlook the water outside but my gaze is drawn quickly to the huge table, lined with more chairs than I care to count. This is a room for a banquet. The two places set for us at one end look ridiculous, though this does not seem to deter Bellandi from coming over the gracious host. He pulls out my chair for me. The formality seems unnecessary but I don't bother to argue with him. He sits down beside me and, a moment later, a woman I haven't seen yet - older than the maid and somewhat less sinister in appearance - brings in two covered dishes. Bellandi pours us each a glass of wine. I take a sip as my dish is uncovered: spaghetti blackened with squid ink, a Venetian favourite.

I wait until the servant has departed and turn to look at Bellandi. The mask really is very striking in profile, though I'm sure it would be more off-putting if I hadn't passed so many happy hours in the company of strangers at _Carnevale_.

I clear my throat. "I have some questions for you, if you don't mind?"

Bellandi picks up his fork, without looking at me. "Certainly. I enjoy nothing better than submitting to interrogation by women who have come to my house to con me. How can I be of service?" His tone is light, as though he is joking, but I can sense the bitterness. I think I'm supposed to.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, cooling a rising swell of frustration. "I really think we can dispense with the trading of insults, Signor Bellandi. It looks as though we're stuck with one another for company so we might as well be civil."

"Certainly. My social graces are a little rusty, though, so you'll have to forgive me: is this the kind of civil where one insinuates oneself into a gentleman's home in order to rob him, or the kind where a gentleman risks his life to save one's own and one responds with contempt? I get so confused."

I twirl spaghetti onto my fork with a sense of purpose. "Look," I say, "I'm sorry I lied to you. I know what I do isn't completely right, but I'm not a thief. I help people."

He gives a derisive snort. "An unsteady platform from which to describe another person as delusional, I think."

I let the dark strands of spaghetti slither back onto the plate again. "Alright, let's say for the sake of argument that the curse is real."

"I can assure you that I would not spend any unnecessary time with you if it were not."

"Fine, so it's real. Don't you think a little warning might have been appropriate? You know, 'I look forward to meeting you. By the way, don't touch anything or you might have to stay on my horrible little island forever.' That sort of thing."

"I really don't see how I could have anticipated your strange desire to drink from the fountain. Most of the ladies of my acquaintance prefer wells to water features."

I drop the fork and throw up my hands. "It's the same water!"

"Not here it isn't."

"So you say. But my point is, how was I to know?" 

Bellandi lowers his cutlery and turns to face me. "Fine. I'm sorry I didn't rush out when you arrived and tell you not to drink out of the fountain. Is that what you want me to say?"

"No. I want you to say something sensible like 'You're right, there's no such thing as curses and therefore no way we can be under one together, please feel free to make your way home as soon as you'd like'."

Bellandi's gloved hands are locked together now, twisting in tension. "What would convince you that this is not a delusion?"

My eyes roll in their sockets. "I don't know, Signor, what would convince you that I'm an enchanted sardine that grants wishes? You'd have to ignore all arguments of logic and reason and the evidence of your own senses, which I decline to do. Personally, I like to rely on facts and evidence." I lean forward. "For instance, what awful deformity are you concealing under that mask that is so utterly inexplicable by modern scientific thought?"

He reacts, though not fast enough. In a swift, fluid movement with which I surprise even herself, I rip the mask off his face. Horror grips me like an iron fist. Bellandi lifts his hands to cover his head but it's too late. The damage is done. I can feel my jaw hanging ajar, can sense keenly the horrible, wanton fashion in which I am gawping at him, but I can't help it. It's impossible, inexplicable. The face of evil itself could not be more horrifying.

I can't describe what I'm seeing. I don't mean that it's too horrible for words or that description could not do it justice, though I suppose that's true too. I actually _cannot describe it_, because I don't know what I'm seeing. I'm not seeing anything at all. The room is still here, the table, the food - everything else in my field of view is present and correct. But his face is a blank, as though I'm forgetting it even while I look at it, as though I'm trying to erase it from existence. But I can _feel_ it. A dark, cold horror that turns my stomach, a mixture of fear and hatred and abject panic. I don't know what it looks like but I know I don't want to see it again.

The mask is still in my hand. Wordless - I can't speak - I hold it out to him. He takes it from me, turns away and secures it back in place.

Calm reigns again and everything is normal, as though my world hasn't just been shattered by the discovery that something like _that_ could exist in it.

Bellandi's voice is colder than ever when he speaks again.

"I trust that answers your question adequately."

I gibber impotently at him. "It… you…" What did I just see? My memory is blank but a chill of horror lingers. I am almost desperate to see it again in order to understand my feelings but I recoil at the notion. "This doesn't make any sense," I mutter.

Bellandi's eyes, apparent once more through the holes in the mask, held me in their gaze. Could I see the eyes without the mask? I'm not sure. "You're too kind," he says.

"But how-?"

Bellandi's dispassion gave way to impatience. "I have been endeavouring to explain that to you for some time, if you recall."

The curse. What else can it be? The curse is real.

I stand up, slowly, pushing my chair back. My movements are measured, deceptively calm. "Excuse me," I mutter.

"Where are you going?" Bellandi asks. But I'm already running. I couldn't answer him anyway. I haven't the faintest idea where I'm going.


	14. Chapter 14

FAUSTINA

I'm watching shadows stretch out across an elegant lawn. The Laguna Veneta glitters beyond it and, in the still silence of the garden, I can make out the sound of little waves lapping at the island's edge.

I discovered this part of the garden perhaps an hour ago. In contrast to the prim profusion of flowerbeds adjacent to the jetty, this area is smooth and clear, just a gleaming green expanse of lawn. It is sectioned off from the rest of the garden by a tall wall, providing both shade and the illusion of privacy for anyone occupying the broad stone bench I'm sitting on.

I am as far away from that wretched fountain as possible.

I've been thinking. This would worry the people who know me best, so I suppose it's just as well that the people closest to me are so far away. That's one of the things I've been thinking about. Signor Bellandi is another.

Signor Bellandi. The formal address feels strange to me now, as though I know him too well to call him by his last name. I suppose ripping a mask off someone's face and staring at them in abject horror creates a kind of intimacy. I can't say I'm familiar with the protocol. Benedetto, then. I'll call him Benedetto.

Just not to his face.

I'm trying to picture it. I can't, and that's frightening. Nothing has ever made me feel the way I did when I tore that mask away and now I can't remember what I saw there. I remember thrusting the mask into his hands. I remember running from the room. But I can't remember why. I feel dizzy - and guilty. Oh, hell.

I don't know why I can't remember what I saw. I do know, however, that Benedetto is sufficiently conscious of his appearance to wear a mask and gloves to cover himself in his own home. Possibly even while sleeping. Now that I've seen… whatever I've seen, this doesn't seem quite as inexplicable as it once did. Nor does the fact that he sent for me, promising large sums of money, despite my dubious reputation and lack of experience in the field of matchmaking. A well-bred, well-connected society lady might have been better placed to introduce him to a selection of eligible women but - if she had been sheltered anything like as much as Beatrice - she might also have balked at some of what might be termed his "eccentricities". I, conversely, tend to take eccentricities in my stride. I generally take people as I find them.

Unless, apparently, something about their faces bothers me.

Oh, hell.

Perhaps I needn't be too ashamed of myself. Benedetto's behaviour towards me since I arrived here has not exactly epitomised cordiality. Somehow, though, that doesn't seem like much of an excuse. That is to say, there are plenty of things that I consider to be objectionable about him that are his fault. His face - whatever, precisely, is wrong with it - is not. I would not have reacted this way if he had had some more natural deformity caused by nature or some kind of accident. Perhaps this shouldn't be any different.

But what is wrong with it? It's the question, the real question, that I have been struggling with ever since I left him in the dining room. If the curse is in his head, it's in mine too. This seems unlikely. I always thought I'd get to know someone a lot better before we had a delusion together. But what's the alternative? There's no such thing as magic.

Although I understand now why Benedetto thinks there is. I would defy anyone to see that in the mirror and not loosen their grip on reality a little.

I take a deep breath and stretch, waiting for my thoughts to simmer down. My priorities remain unchanged. I have to help Alessia. I have to find the Madrina. And I can't do either of those things from this island, so I need to escape.

I rub my temples. It's a lot to accomplish with fairly limited resources. Well, no resources at all, really. After my ill-fated dip in the water last night, I don't even have the clothes I came here in.

I am reminded of my brother. I hate it when that happens.

Giacomo's resource is people. Which is fine, except that there aren't any people here I can use. Unless...

I hear approaching footsteps. A moment later, Benedetto appears, circumventing the wall. He comes to an abrupt halt upon seeing me.

"Oh. I'm sorry, I didn't realise you were here."

I smile, surprised to find that it comes naturally. I must be tired of brooding alone. "That's all right. Come and join me. I think there are one or two things we need to talk about."

"As you wish." His manner is hesitant but he moves towards me, gingerly taking a seat on the bench beside me.

I turn to face him. It's the beaked mask again. I hate to think it but, after seeing what's underneath, the deliberately-grotesque form is almost beautiful. I push the thought from my mind and clear my throat. "I'm sorry I took your mask off."

He drops his gaze for a moment, then stares deliberately out over the water.

I carry on. "And I'm sorry for running off. It was rude and I shouldn't have done it."

He looks at me now. I'm not yet a connoisseur of his looks but I think I detect surprise with notes of confusion and sadness. "I can't blame you for that," he says, quietly. "I'd quite like to run away from it too."

Now it's my turn to look thoughtfully out to sea. "How do you know you need a woman to fall in love with you?"

There's a long pause. Too long. I look back at him and find him running an agitated hand through his hair.

"I don't know," he says, finally. "I just do."

If he'd told me that earlier this evening I can't guarantee that I wouldn't have laughed in his face. Now, I mull it over carefully for a moment. It makes an uncomfortable sort of sense. Evidently I don't have to know why what's under his mask filled me with such horror to know that I don't want to see it again. Why should he need to know how he knows the cure? Besides, it's the only information we have. And anything's got to be worth a try.

I take a deep breath. "I have a proposition for you."

His eyes widen slightly. "I'm listening."

"I'd like to try and help you break the curse. It's not really what I do but I expect there are a few people I can introduce you to and I'm sure not all of them will find your personality as repellent as I do."

He gives me a strange look and I smile to show I'm joking. He folds his arms. "And what's my side of this deal? I'm assuming that you don't consider the chance to regain your freedom enough of a reward for your efforts."

I crack my knuckles. "Money," I say. "Lots of money."

He snorts. "That's a relief. I was starting to worry that you might have more personality traits than just 'mercenary'."

"It's not for me. It's for a friend who was…" I hesitate for a second "...robbed."

"And you're against that unless you're the one doing the robbing?"

I keep my voice level. "I told you before, I'm not a thief. Now, do we have a deal or don't we?"

He sighs. "Fine. Help me break the curse and you can have all the money you want."

I lean back into the hard, cold stone of the bench. "Good." Then, as an afterthought, "Thank you."

Silence falls after that. As the light fades and the air grows colder I keep waiting for him to make his excuses and leave. Perhaps he's waiting for me to do it instead. Neither of us does, so we end up watching the sunset together. As the last golden rays sink below the horizon, I glance over at that blank, inscrutable visage.

What am I letting myself in for?


	15. Chapter 15

CHIARA

I pull the black cloak tighter around my shoulders and hurry down the near-black sidestreet, making my way as much by touch as sight. I hate wearing gentlemen's clothing but it's a necessary evil for a young woman alone at night in some of the streets I've been on tonight. There is a lady, an innkeeper's wife, who accepts for me letters that I wouldn't want to get into my stepmother's hands. She is kind but some of her customers are less so and have been known to take a greater interest in unprotected females than is really proper. This disguise, a shirt, trousers and cloak in dark colours, does the job, provided I keep my head down and don't draw attention to myself. I am grateful for it, though I have been longing to slip back into something satin and impractical ever since I left the house earlier this evening.

A hand shoots out of the darkness, snatching my wrist. I grab at it, prising hairy knuckles, but relax when I hear the voice.

"Where the hell have you been? Mamma's going spare." It's my stepbrother.

I swat him away. "Relax, Giorgio, I'm here now."

Giorgio opens the door he's been standing next to I follow him into the warm candlelight of the kitchen. He looks me up and down, playing the part of the disapproving elder brother.

"What are you wearing?" He leans in closer. "Here, that's not my shirt, is it?"

I snort. "As if I'd be seen dead in your clothes."

Giorgio holds up his hands, mock-defensive. "Sorry. I had no idea you were so selective when cross-dressing."

I raise an eyebrow. "You're not seriously going to tease me about this, are you?"

He cocks his head briefly to one side and grins. "I guess not. But look, you'd better get upstairs and change right now. He's here."

I mutter an oath. "Already?"

"Yeah. Mamma's been stalling him for a good fifteen minutes already."

I'm already running for the stairs. "I'll be right there!"

Up in my room, I slip hastily out of the man's outfit and bundle it under the bed, along with the letter I collected. It's addressed in Faustina's handwriting but there isn't time. I'm struggling with my corset when the door bursts open. A thin, grey-haired woman with a pinched face and pursed lips glares at me from the doorway and my heart sinks, the way it usually does when I see her. This is Isabella Scordato, widow of Paride Scordato, my father. I have fond, though brief, memories of my father - he was often away on business - but I can't help but fault him on his abysmal taste in women.

Isabella eyes me with her customary disdain. "There you are, you miserable waste of my time." The words are angry but delivered in a tone of icy calm that makes them far more frightening.

I lower my arms slowly to my sides. "I'm just getting ready," I say, quietly.

Isabella moves towards me in smart, short steps. "Where on earth have you been?" she demands.

"I-" I begin, but get no further. I should have known the question was rhetorical.

"You look a mess, it will be a miracle if this one is taken in. He has been kept waiting for so long already." Without warning, she grabs hold of my hair in a brutal fist and twists it up far too tightly, so that a thousand tiny pinpricks of pain rend my scalp. "Let me do this, you always do it wrong."

I don't try to resist. There's no point. "Yes, stepmother."

The requisite number of pins jabbed in, Isabella swings me to face her for examination. Her expression is critical. "That will have to do. The chartreuse gown, I think."

I go to fetch the prescribed garment from the wardrobe. Isabella snatches it from me and throws it over my head, yanking down.

"No time to waste."

I stand in silence as Isabella completes the remainder of my preparations for me. When she pronounces me ready, we leave the room together and descend the darkened staircase. Candles are at a premium and reserved chiefly for the front room, where guests are received.

Isabella enters the room first, with me trailing in her wake. "Here she is. So sorry to have kept you waiting."

Across the room, a man stands to greet us. His face is unfamiliar, though I know he's not a stranger. He is a handsome man of perhaps twenty-two with green eyes, and sandy-coloured hair.

"Miss - ah, Signorina - Scordato. It's such a pleasure to see you again."

"You too, Signor." I smile, feeling the character I am supposed to be presenting take possession of me. "I have been longing for this moment ever since we were parted at the end of the ball."

That's my stepmother's cue to excuse herself. "I have business to attend to. I hope you will excuse me, Lord Chiswick?"

I wince at her mispronunciation of his name. Chees-wick. But then the plan for this evening - for every evening - does not call for Isabella to have any real fluency in English. I studied several languages while Father was alive - unusual for a girl but Father was prone to strange whims and had the money to pay for them. I just wish I'd had the foresight to keep this information a secret from Isabella. And that we still had some of the money.

Chiswick bows, giving a beneficent smile. "Of course, Signora Scordato. I'm sure Signorina Chiara is perfectly capable of entertaining me."

Isabella returns the smile. "Have no doubt about it, Signor, my daughter-" I wonder if the venom in the word would be apparent to anyone but me - "is a very accomplished hostess." With that, she bobs a stiff little curtsey and retreats from the room. The door closes behind her, though I know that it will be some time before Isabella withdraws from behind it.

I push this thought from my mind and turn my attention to Lord Chiswick. I have a job to do. I give him the full benefit of the lashes-lowered, seductive smile that Isabella taught me. I've practiced it a thousand times in front of a mirror and wonder every time whether my "decent, symmetrical face", as Isabella has grudgingly referred to it, really overrides the unfeeling, mechanical nature of the expression. Judging from the evidence, I suppose it must do.

"Oh, Signor," I coo, "you have emptied your glass. You must let me get you some more wine." Without waiting for a response, I select a bottle - one of a neatly-arranged collection of them readied on the sideboard - and work the cork out with my fingers.

I stand close to him, far too close if I were the nice society girl I'm pretending to be, and lean over, allowing him the full benefit of my too-low neckline. I watch him shift in his seat to a position that indicates keen interest. I fill the glass almost to the rim, then pour a similar amount for myself. I long to take a generous swig of it, but that's not the point.

I settle myself on the far end of the sofa next to his chair, then pat the seat next to me. "Come and sit beside me, Signor Chiswick. It's lonely over here!"

"Certainly, my dear." It could not be said that the gentleman is ungallant. Gripping his glass, he gets up and moves to the seat indicated, settling much closer to me than is required by the size of the furniture. Though my desire to be close to him is by no means genuine, I enjoy a moment of relief. This is not going to be difficult.

"So, Signor, tell me about yourself. I wish to hear everything. You are on the Grand Tour, is that right?"

Chiswick takes a deep swig of the wine. "Yes, that's right. Father packed me off on it not long after school, said I wanted a bit of worldly experience to look back on in later life. Think he regrets not having done it himself, you know, and he can't get Mother to go now because she gets an attack of nerves just looking at a boat. I've been to Paris, so far, and Lyon, and a chap there said I simply had to go to Venice next, so here I am."

I let his words wash over me, concentrating on taking dainty sips of my own wine while keeping his generously topped up. Judging from a certain unsteady joviality in his manner, Isabella was doing a reasonable job of that before I got here, but there is still some distance to be made up. I've heard numerous variations on his story before, in this very room, and could probably continue it for him, but experience has taught me that it's far easier and less painful to listen to the gentlemen's stories, however dull, than to attempt to actually converse with them.

I don't know how many times I've done this. It started sometime around my fifteenth birthday, when Isabella looked at me sharply over the breakfast table in what was once my family home and announced that I finally "looked old enough". I didn't ask for what. Isabella doesn't like questions and she told me quickly enough anyway. It was embarrassingly easy to start with. Young men like Chiswick, in Venice on the Grand Tour, fall under its spell every day. At home they have been coddled from infancy but restrained by social mores. In the comparative freedom of Venice, where so many blind eyes are turned that we might as well not put holes in the masks, they lose their heads.

By the time this extract from Chiswick's autobiography concludes at our meeting at the ball, I know what I'm going to do.

"I love the way you talk," I tell him. "I could listen to you all night long." I feel as though I already have been.

Swivelling in my seat, I lean back on the arm of the sofa and lift my feet onto the seat in front of me. Chiswick colours, presumably thinking of English propriety, but says nothing. I make my next move, stretching my legs out across his lap. It is a comfortable position, actually - far too comfortable. I watch the colour rise in Chiswick's cheeks.

"Er, Signorina, forgive me… You're not a prostitute, are you?"

I stifle a giggle, feigning offence. If all a prostitute had to do was stretch her legs over a man's lap, the women of Venice would be a whole lot wealthier. "Lord Chiswick!" I exclaim. "How dare you? Of course I'm not a prostitute!" A close observer might have noticed that I wasn't offended enough to remove my legs.

This seems to smooth his worried brow, though his blush deepens. "Forgive me, Signorina, I'm sorry. I'm just not used to the, ah, geniality with which Venetian women greet visitors to their beautiful city."

I give him a warm smile. "I forgive you. And you mustn't think that we extend our geniality, as you put it, to all visitors. We must keep something in reserve for those with whom we feel a special connection."

He turns his head to look at me, but not before draining his wine glass. "Do you feel a special connection with me, Signorina Scordato?"

I lower my lashes at him and smoulder for a moment before responding. "I felt it the moment I saw you in that ballroom."

He smirks. "So did I."

I take the compliment, even though I know that it was Faustina he was really hoping to "connect" with. It won't matter in a minute, anyway.

One of my shoes slips off my foot and falls to the floor. This does not surprise me, partly because these shoes are stiff and ill-fitting, but mostly because I deliberately loosened it with my toe.

"Could you pick that up for me?" I ask him.

"Of course."

I withdraw my legs so that he can bend to retrieve it. When he turns back, I hold up a stockinged foot with the toe pointed. I look meaningfully from his face to the shoe and back again. He slips it onto my foot and I relax a little.

"You can put your legs back on my lap, if you like."

The offer is earnest but I turn it down. "No, thank you. I think I'll go to bed."

"But…" Sadly, that now-familiar look of bafflement is one of my life's greatest joys.

I lean over and give him a kiss on the cheek. "Good night, amore."

"Er, good night, Signorina."

I cross to the door without looking back and close it behind me. Giorgio is waiting in the hallway for instructions.

"Shoe," I tell him.

He rolls his eyes. "Not again. No one ever believes the shoe one."

It's not true and he knows it. "They always believe the shoe one," I correct him. "I'm just making you work a little harder for it."

He makes a rude gesture but he's smiling. I return both the smile and the gesture and make my exit. Isabella's bedroom door is closed as I pass and I hear the soft sound of snoring.

Back in my room, I light a candle and undress, enjoying the calm before the storm. My bedroom is directly above the living room. The floor is not so thin that I generally hear the initial exchange of pleasantries, but I usually catch some of the heated exchange of views that follows.

Even without being able to hear, I know how the conversation is unfolding. Giorgio will wish him a good evening. Lord Chiswick will be cordial, despite his confusion. Giorgio will bring up one or two matters of general interest before mentioning how excited his mother and sister are about the wedding. Lord Chiswick does know about our Venetian wedding custom, doesn't he? Where putting a shoe on a woman's foot counts as a formal proposal of marriage?

It's supposed to be a ring. I'm supposed to drop a ring and have him help me look for it, then get him to put it on my finger when it turns up. I like my version better. A ring is too obvious - not to mention liable to roll away and become genuinely lost. I've tried a few things but the shoe really winds Giorgio up for some reason so it's stuck. Annoying Giorgio is one of my other sad little pleasures. It won't be so funny if Isabella ever finds out, though.

"Now, look here!" There we are, the raised voices. "Your sister is perfectly charming, but I had no idea about this so-called custom of yours. I was just trying to be helpful!"

Giorgio's tone is placatory. "I understand, doubt you would like to return to your lodgings. Please, let me get your coat.

"Thank you." Chiswick's relief is palpable - and temporary.

"I hope that the courts understand, too."

A pause. "The courts?"

Giorgio becomes a little smug. He's enjoying himself, probably too much. "Well, my sister will probably want to sue for breach of contract."

Another pause. "How much do you want?"

I don't listen closely to the negotiations but in the end Chiswick haggles Giorgio down to ten gold zecchini. Giorgio must be tired. I know I am.

I slip into my nightdress, and I have just enough time to take in Faustina's puzzling missive before I fall back into the pillow and sleep.


	16. Chapter 16

FAUSTINA

I awake the following morning and look out of the window to see a boat approaching the island. I dress quickly - much easier to do in a man's clothes - and race for the door. Benedetto intercepts me in the hallway.

At least, that's probably what he was about to do before I ran into him.

"You're not trying to escape again, are you? I do wish you'd give me some warning so that I can change. I'm missing enough of my clothes as it is with you wearing them." His tone is almost jovial and I find I almost like it, but it's probably just that I'm in a good mood.

"You can have your clothes back," I tell him. "Cingolani's here with my things!"

He comes out with me to the jetty. Cingolani and one of the oarsmen are struggling with a large wooden trunk that I recognise as part of Beatrice's collection of luggage. I am touched at this generosity, though no doubt she will use it as an excuse to buy a new one.

The oarsmen carry it to the jetty so in the end it falls to Benedetto and Cingolani to carry it inside and up to my room, with me calling out what I like to think of as helpful instructions. They exit the room rather brusquely, leaving me to unpack.

I am in ecstasy. The trunk is filled to the brim with the bulk of my possessions. I almost want to dive into it, greeting dresses as old friends, but my eye is drawn to the envelope resting on top.

_"My Dear Faustina,_

_"I was sorry to get your letter. I need you now more than ever. I fainted again at the Scutese house and now Aunt Ersilia will barely let me out of her sight. I am sure that it is just the heat or something, but Aunt Ersilia is convinced that it is something far more sinister. I wish you were here to talk some sense into her._

_"The man you've sent is a curious fellow, I am not sure at all that you should have confidence in your friend's staff. It is a disappointment that we are to miss you for a little while but I expect I shall be busy with preparations for the wedding. You and Aunt Ersilia were right, Matteo is wonderful. We are having a ball in a month's time to celebrate our engagement. I hope you will be back in Venice in time to attend._

_"I don't like to write too much now as the curious fellow is waiting, but I have told him which of your things are your favourites and got my maid to help him to pack them up. I did not think you would like to have this man pawing through your underthings._

_"All my love,_

_"Beatrice."_

I put the missive aside, both cheered and saddened. I am glad that Beatrice is happy, sad that I can't be there to congratulate her. These fainting spells she's suffering from are cause for concern. It's no hotter now than is usual at this time of year. On the other hand, her dresses are of intricate design and she does insist on having her corset pulled as tight as her maids can make it without breaking anything. And if anything is wrong, Signora Sebastiano will see that she gets the very best care money can buy. There is nothing I could really do to help but still, I wish I was there. My resolve is strengthened: I will get off this island.

I spend a blissful half hour or so extracting gowns from the chest, smoothing the skirts and making them at home in the wardrobe. Loath as I am to get comfortable here, I can't leave them to crease in the trunk. Once they're all unpacked, I admire them for a moment before selecting one of the nicest to wear today. It's a shame that there's no one but Benedetto to see me in it but I dress as much to please myself as others.

Speaking of Benedetto, I find him breakfasting in the dining room, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a book in the other.

I pull out the chair beside him and fall into it. "Good morning, Benedet- Signor Bellandi."

He lowers the book. "You might as well call me Benedetto. I know we've only known each other a few days but - " a teasing note enters his voice " - it feels longer."

I help myself to coffee. A plate of dainty pastries has been set out so a take a few of those as well. "I know the feeling," I say, "but you can call me Faustina."

He arches an eyebrow, looking pointedly at the pastry in my hand. I take a defiant bite. "Are we friends now?"

I shrug. "Not in any recognisable sense of the word, no. But now that we've reached our understanding we're going to have to be on the same side from now on so it wouldn't hurt to pretend."

I can't tell, of course, but it sounds as though he's smiling. I find myself hoping we won't get too friendly. I quite enjoy sparring with him.

"Very well, then, I'll go along with the pretence. And please, help yourself to some breakfast."

I take a sip of coffee and smirk. We sit in barbed but companionable silence for a moment, until I realise that he's looking me up and down. "Problem?" I ask.

He shrugs. "No. I was just admiring your dress. You scrub up quite nicely. For a felon."

"Thanks." Basic pleasantries and a compliment? I begin to wonder if he's been drinking more than coffee.

Benedetto clears his throat, then picks up his book but doesn't open it. After a moment, he says "So, you're resigned to staying here, then?"

"I suppose. For now, anyway. Of course, it'll ruin my reputation." I wonder, in some of my more reflective moments, whether I make these jokes about my reputation because secretly I lament my lack of one. Then I usually forget all about it.

"Hmm." Benedetto is giving me a strange look. "I hadn't considered that, I'm sorry."

I let out a laugh. "I'm joking. Besides, if I had any social standing to lose, it would hardly matter now. Being unable to leave the island is a far greater barrier to my making a good match than any stain on my personal history."

Benedetto doesn't share my mirth. "Yes. I think you begin to understand my predicament."

There is an uncomfortable silence. Silence on this island is unlike anything I have heard - or not heard - before. Quiet in Venice is being able to hear two gondoliers shouting at one another across a canal two streets away or music from a party around the corner. There is none of that here. Now and then there is a faint clatter or footstep from the servants' quarters but, besides that, the silence is absolute. I have been thinking of Benedetto as an antagonist, reluctant to feel sympathy for someone who has played fast and loose with my freedom. Now I realise he is lonely. I wonder if that's all to do with the curse?

I refill my coffee cup, then turn to look at him. "Were you the recipient of much female attention prior to this curse, then?"

Benedetto lowers his book back onto the table. "I believe I can anticipate your line of questioning. You mean to draw from me the information that I was quite a favourite with the ladies and enjoyed the special affections of one in particular. You then mean to chide me for my underestimation of your sex, proclaiming that one who loved me as I was then would have loved me still even after I underwent this hideous change. An argument would then ensue during which you could expose me as having no regard for the steadfast nature of the feminine heart and punish me for it by proving that this lost love of mine might have saved me from my current plight had I only allowed her the opportunity. Am I near the mark?"

I blink. That certainly wasn't my overt intention, though I have to admit that a pre-existing lost love would save me a lot of time in pairing him off with his soulmate. I frown. "No, not at all. I just wondered whether, in better times, your better appearance might have overcome your rather unpleasant personality. I am reminded now that it is rather unlikely."

To my surprise, Benedetto laughs. I don't think I've heard him laugh before and I rather like it. It's an ungentlemanly laugh, along the lines of a guffaw, which is my favourite kind. There is nothing depressing in this world than restrained laughter.

"I may have misjudged you, Faustina, and not just because I didn't have you down as a con merchant. There's not a lot of romance in you, is there?"

I allow myself the luxury of an eyeroll. "Not as such, no."

Benedetto leans back in his chair as though getting comfortable. In a strange sort of way, I find I am too.

"To answer your question, then," he says, "no. I was a shy youth who grew to be a reserved adult. The notion of love and of the pursuit of women appealed to me - I am sure I will not be the first man to have confessed to being a great admirer of the exploits of your brother - but I lacked both the confidence and the opportunity to try them for myself. I have had one engagement and but one ill-considered dalliance, and I am afraid to say that the former preceded the latter."

I give a wan smile. "Well, that is a relief."

"How so?"

"I had you down as such a gentleman. You know, apart from all the bitter sarcasm and constant digs at me."

He leans forward, loosely clasping his hands together. "I wonder if I might ask you a question or two in return?"

I sit up a little straighter. "I don't see why not. What would you like to know?"

"How do you do it? How did you expect our encounter to go?"

I frown, puzzled, though I have an inkling of what he means. "What do you mean?"

"How do you con people, the way you do?"

I feel my eyebrows go up. I open my mouth to bat the question away out of habit but something stops me. Somehow, the question does not seem an unreasonable one. So far as I can tell, he has been nothing but honest with me, in that he has told me the truth as he sees it. Perhaps, despite the strangeness of our situation, I owe him a similar courtesy. I take a deep breath. "It's complicated," I warn him.

"I have plenty of time to listen."

I tap my fingers on the polished tabletop, taking a moment to gather my thoughts. Then I begin. "Well, you already know I don't believe in magic." The horror of his face echos in my mind and I add: "Well, I thought I didn't."

He nods, perhaps catching my meaning. "Go on."

"But of course, there are plenty of those in Venice who do. My brother, Giacomo - you may have heard of him - used to suffer terribly from nosebleeds as a child. Our grandmother took him to see a woman she said was a witch, though Giacomo says the only proof of that was that she had a lot of cats. She put this vile unguent on him, muttered something she said was a spell and relieved Grandmother of a purseful of coins. When Giacomo came home his nose went right on bleeding but we were both of us fascinated by what had happened. Not the notion that this woman could do magic, but that people believed she could. Surely it had to work, or appear to, sometimes, or word would spread and she would be ruined. We concluded between us, as we grew up, Giacomo and I, that the power of this woman and those like her lay her her ability to make people believe that she could help them, not in anything of any practical worth." I glance up at Benedetto, who appears to be listening intently. "Are you following this?"

"I think so. So you and your brother decided to make your living in a similar vein?"

"Basically, yes. Everyone knows how my brother chooses to live. I share many of his enthusiasms but not his energy. I have never attempted to deceive my patron: initially because I knew which side my bread was buttered on, so to speak, and latterly because we have become friends. She funds my lifestyle to keep me around, because I amuse her. Giacomo is greedier, but I do not censure him for it. The world around us is divided into those who have and those who have not. Giacomo has decided, as have I and as have rich people the world over, not to join the latter category."

"You're saying you don't feel any remorse for taking what doesn't belong to you."

"I take what is given to me freely. Believe it or not, I leave most of my customers satisfied."

"But how? You still haven't explained what you do."

"That's because it's difficult to explain." I sigh. "Alright, take a woman who is afraid that her beauty is fading and that she is losing her power to attract, or keep, a husband. These women are the majority of my clients. They beg me for a magic serum or incantation to restore their looks and I give them a useless paste of herbs or string of meaningless syllables. But that's just a symbol, something for them to cling to, because their minds won't accept what I'm really giving them without it."

"And what are you really giving them?"

"It's the conversation we have, what they think is polite chit-chat before I hand over their meaningless spell or potion. I convince them that age has not diminished their beauty but simply altered - perhaps even improved - it. That anyone who cannot see that is in the wrong. And it's true, because beauty - like so many other things - is subjective. These women aren't any less beautiful for being older. And if their men really are straying, then they'll have some of the strength they'll need to deal with that."

Benedetto is incredulous. "And that works? They believe you?"

I shrug, suddenly uneasy. "It's a gift."


	17. Chapter 17

_I'm diverging from my pre-existing draft now (I think this is better!) and I'm having some real-world problems so updates will be a little slower. Thanks so much to everyone who's following this story and a special shout-out to Chryseida, BeRose and AlanaFaith2 for some recent reviews that really cheered me up :)_

* * *

FAUSTINA

Benedetto leans towards me. "What do you mean, it's a gift?"

I shift in my seat. "It's difficult to explain. I can sort of… tweak people's minds, a little."

"What does that mean?" I detect a note of alarm.

"Well, in the example I just gave you, it's not just that I make a persuasive case. I can sort of change their thoughts a bit, so that they see things the way I want them to."

His stare has become intense. "I don't understand. You mean you can control people's minds?"

I shake my head. "Not exactly. I couldn't convince you of anything outrageous, or to do something that you would never normally do. And it helps if it's something that you want to believe or that would make logical sense. So I can convince people that they're kinder, better-looking and more intelligent than they thought, but not that they're, say, murderous eels bent on world domination. Well, not unless they're particularly weak-minded or... unusual." I wrinkle my nose and regard the middle distance thoughtfully for a moment. "It's actually not as useful as you'd think."

Benedetto adjusts his mask a little, though fortunately not without revealing anything. "Does your brother have it?" he asks. "Is that how he seduces so many women?"

I chew my lip. "Not as far as I know. I'm pretty sure Giacomo's just charming. Difficult to believe about one's older brother, but there it is."

Benedetto seems lost in thought. "That's amazing. From what I hear, he's not that much to look at."

I can't conceal a snort. "I'm sorry?" My expression is pointed.

He glowers at me for a second, then looks away. "So, you have some kind of mild supernatural power and yet you still don't believe in magic?"

He's got a point. I mull it over for a moment or two. "Well, I'm not really sure where I stand on magic at the moment, but I suppose I've never really thought of what I can do as being magical. To me, magic is something that can't be explained by rational thought. And usually, like the 'witch' Giacomo saw, it can't be proven, either. What I have is more of an unusual skill than a magical ability. It might be small but it gets the job done."

Benedetto coughs. "Well, it still sounds like swindling to me."

I open my mouth to defend myself and find I can't. Alessia and the _Madrina_ loom large in my mind. I sigh. "Perhaps you're right." A sudden thought strikes me. "Look, not to change the subject or anything -"

"And why would you want to do that?"

" - But this engagement you had, there's not any chance you could just get your former fiance to fall in love with you again, is there? That would save us some time."

Benedetto gives a brief, mirthless laugh. "No. We didn't love each other in the first place. The date for our wedding was set before our first meeting. We were cordial to one another and ours certainly wouldn't have been the worst arranged marriage I've heard of, but it was quickly called off after I spent a night with another woman."

"What made you do that?" And then, as practicality catches up with curiosity, "More importantly, is there any chance that woman could break the spell?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know why I did it. There was just something about this woman, something bewitching. I couldn't resist her. But I haven't seen her since so no, I don't think she'll do the trick either. What we shared wasn't love either but, whatever it was, I knew I would never feel it with my fiancee."

A smile tugs the corners of my mouth. "I wouldn't say that. Most married couples give it a try eventually."

He gives me a sharp look. "Not that. Well, yes, I suppose that was pretty good. But I meant the passion, the fire, the way she made me feel the whole time I was with her, not just while we were engaged in the act you're talking about." He sighs, gesturing at his face. "Of course, then this happened, and I'm not really in a position to be selective any more."

There's not a lot I can say to that so I settle for a noncommittal "Hmm."

Benedetto broods for a moment, then takes a breath and sits up straight. "Well, now that we've dismissed those possibilities, how are you intending to deliver your half of our bargain? Have some of your underworld contacts kidnap a brace of eligible young women and bring them here so you can fiddle with their minds?"

"That's not what I had in mind," I return, "but we can certainly keep it in reserve. No, actually, I've been giving it some thought. It's not an area of special interest for me but the only way I know of making a match is to go to a ball in a ludicrously expensive outfit. And since you can't make it across to the city to attend one there, I thought you might consider holding one here instead."

Benedetto shrinks back into his seat. "You want to invite strangers to a ball on a cursed island in the hope that one of them will fall in love with a recluse whose face looks like the mouth of Hell? You must not have a fear of rejection."

I put my elbow on the table and rest my chin in my hand. "I'll admit that there are one or two problems that need smoothing over," I say, "but you're fabulously wealthy, right?"

He shifts in his seat. "You could put it like that, although when I do it it just seems immodest."

"Well, I have a hunch that that will help to gloss over one or two of your - " I hesitate just long enough to make my point " - idiosyncrasies."

He doesn't rise to the bait. "I suppose I'll have to become a little less _idiosyncratic_ if you succeed, then, since you'll be taking a boatload of my fabulous wealth away with you."

I beam at him. "That's the plan!"

There is a little method in my madness in making this suggestion. I am thinking of Signorina Sebastiano's fervour with regard to the match between Beatrice and Matteo, despite the fact that the two of them had never set eyes on each other. I had never heard the name Bellandi before I received Benedetto's letter but I'm confident that those of the Venetian elite with daughters of marriageable age will have. If I get Chiara and Beatrice to spread the word that he's having a party and looking for a wife, I should be able to get an entire shoal of Venetian beauties swimming over here. Not literally, of course, since I now know that's harder than it looks. There's still time to fit in a masked ball before _Carnevale_ so Benedetto's choice of headgear won't arouse comment and, if he's right about love breaking the curse, it won't matter afterwards.

Given my own feelings about marriage, particularly marriages arranged for money and status, I feel a little guilty to be arranging one. On the other hand, these young women are likely to be married off to _somebody_, so if it's not Benedetto it will be someone else. And something tells me that Benedetto will be kind to his wife. Despite his aversion to me, I think he's a good man. He just has terrible taste.

I get to my feet. "Right, well, I'm going to go to my room and start working on a plan for this ball. Will I see you at lunchtime?"

Benedetto picks up his book. "I suppose so. Sadly, I have nothing better to do."

I give his shoulder a playful shove. His jacket is soft to the touch. "I look forward to it too."

Just as I'm about to turn away, a sheet of paper slips out from between the book's pages and falls onto the table. It's a letter. Benedetto snatches it up again quickly but a fraction too late. The handwriting is familiar. Very familiar.

I sink slowly back into my seat. "What have you got there?" I ask.

Benedetto tightens his grip, wrinkling the paper a little. "A letter." His tone is cagey.

"Can I see it?"

"No. It's personal. And, in any case, I'm not in the habit of letting mountebanks read my mail. It's a personal preference."

I roll my eyes. At least 'mountebank' has a nicer ring to it than 'felon'. I take a moment to reflect that being on cordial terms with him has been nice while it has lasted, then reach out and whip the letter out of his hands. Something about Benedetto seems to compel me to use actions rather than words. I quickly unfold it. There's only time for a glimpse of the writing before he snatches it back but it's enough.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Benedetto demands.

I hesitate. I almost don't want to tell him. I'm still pondering the implications myself. When I speak, my voice is low. "We've met before."

Incredulous, he spreads his hands wide. "Yes, I know. Two days ago, and I've treasured every infuriating moment spent in your company since then."

Irritation ruffles me. "Does it make you feel any better, acting like a pompous ass all the time?"

He shrugs. "Not really. One merely does it to keep up appearances."

"I suppose that's as good a reason as any, but I have to confess that it makes for uncomfortable listening. I'm left with the impression that you think you're funny, and you know how your unfounded delusions upset me."

He waves a hand. "Are you going to tell me why you snatched that letter off me or not?"

My anger recedes and I take a couple of calming breaths. I'm not proud of the side of my personality that Benedetto seems to bring out. I wonder if he feels the same about me?

"Here." I have worked my hand through the complex layers of my skirts to my pocket and pulled out a letter of my own. I pass it to him. It's the letter from my friend, the one I feel guilty for not yet replying to. It was among the things Beatrice sent.

Benedetto takes it and unfolds it slowly, not immediately shifting his gaze away from my face. When he does look at it, I watch his eyes flicker over the contents. "Where did you get this?"

"The Rialto Bridge. It was left there for me by a casual acquaintance. I take it it's familiar to you?"

He shakes his head slowly, in mounting disbelief. "This can't be right."

I shrug. "I'm as surprised as you are."

"But the woman I sent this to was nothing like you. She was sweet and tender, not-" He comes to an abrupt halt.

I cock an eyebrow, half-amused. "Not what, Signor Bellandi?"

"Not… you."

I haven't got the energy to be offended. "You were a little different too, as I recall."

The revelation raises some interesting points. For one thing, he wasn't under this mysterious curse and was roaming at large about the city when last we met, so he's not quite the confirmed hermit that I thought - and the curse is a relatively recent development. For another, my _Carnevale_ stranger was fun and witty, if a little shy, so there's obviously some depth of personality beneath the gentlemanly bitterness I've seen from him over the last couple of days.

He tosses the note onto the table beside his plate and I give him a teasing smile.

"Sweet and tender, you say?"

He looks away. "I'm sure I'm not the first person to misjudge someone based on a first impression." He stands, abruptly. "Excuse me, Faustina. I trust you will not object to dining alone this afternoon."


	18. Chapter 18

BENEDETTO

I have been alone in my room all morning, since leaving Faustina in the dining room. My thoughts are a mess. I don't know why this revelation has hit home as hard as it has but I feel as though something I needed has been snatched away from me. I didn't know until now how much of a lifeline those brief, flirtatious missives had come to represent for me.

I told Faustina that the woman I met last Carnevale was never a candidate to break the spell and that's true. Nothing about our encounter or her subsequent letters could have led me to think otherwise. But she was precious to me nonetheless, a fleeting but invaluable diversion from the otherwise unrelenting misery of my situation.

And now she is gone, usurped and replaced by a woman who makes a sport out of antagonising me.

Something else occurs to me. Up until now, I have always been content to hold the mystery woman blameless for what happened as a result of our consummation - the loss of my fiancee, the censure from my friends and connections. I always assumed that she was as swept up in a rare moment of passion as I was. Now that I've seen Faustina in front of me, mocking me…

I shake the thought from my head. Much as I would love to, I can't quite make the blame stick to Faustina. Not for this, anyway. She's no one's idea of an angel but the choice to go to bed with her was mine.

Miserable as I am, now, I can't quite regret it.

I cross to the window seat and take up my customary position there, sitting with one leg hanging out of the open window, staring down at the garden. A breeze disturbs the trees and plants there, creating a gentle rustling sound. In the distance, the mainland of Italy bridges the gap between sea and sky, a distant outline against the pink sunset.

From here I can see the balcony attached to Faustina's chamber. I had her installed close to me so that I could keep an eye on her, which seems to have been just as well. The balcony is unoccupied but the doors are open and I can hear faint singing mingled with the sloshing of bath water. She is not always strictly in tune but her voice is pleasant enough. The audible presence of another human being, besides the servants clustered in their quarters is soothing. I'm glad she's there.

The revelation is an alarming one. Resenting Faustina's presence has quickly become second nature to me. The woman is insufferable: she is arrogant, unrefined and came here with the specific intention of deceiving me for her own profit. My opinion of her could not fail to be anything but low and yet, now that I am alone, I find myself looking forward to spending time in her company again.

Most unsettling.

FAUSTINA

I didn't have the servants draw this bath purely for my own pleasure, though I won't deny that that was a consideration. I do some of my best thinking while up to my neck in warm, fragranced water. Some of my best singing, too.

On this occasion, I am thinking about the ball. Now that I've thought of it, it seems so stunningly simple that I'm wondering why Benedetto didn't think of it. Benedetto strikes me as a romantic: idealistic and prone to bouts of melancholy when chaotic and damaged reality fails to live up to those ideals. There is nothing romantic about inviting a few dozen eligible ladies to a party and picking one to marry as though deciding which outfit to wear or what to have for dinner.

Of course, only the very rich and very lucky can afford ideals and Benedetto's luck ran out when he fell under this curse.

By the time I climb out of the bath and wrap myself in a towel, I have outlined the plan for the ball in my head. When I find the unnerving maid waiting for me in my room, I decide to seize the moment and enlist her.

"Ah, buon giorno. Could you give me a hand with something?" I ask her.

She spreads the clothes out on the bed. "Signor Bellandi has instructed me to serve you, Signorina Casanova."

There was no real need for her to say it with such distaste but I'm in a good mood and overlook it.

"Excellent. I need a word with all the servants, are there many of you?"

She smoothes a hand over the dress on the bed, eradicating a crease, and I note her long, carefully-shaped nails. She must not deal with any of the more labour-intensive tasks around the house. "Five, Signorina. The cook, the butler, the gardener and myself. There was another, Signor Bellandi's valet, Signor Nardi, but…" Her voice fades into nothingness.

I prompt her. "But he had an accident?"

Her eyes are still downcast. "Yes, Signorina."

I push damp, straggling hair out of my eyes. "Do you believe in the curse?" I ask her.

She freezes but still does not look at me. "I do not remain on this island for nothing, Signorina."

I am struck by the sharpness of tone from one who seems so meek. "Well, do you believe it can be broken?"

There is a pause.

"I believe in justice, Signorina Casanova." She lifts her eyes to meet mine and I am chilled to my core. "Will there be anything further?"

I swallow, suddenly feeling much less inquisitive. "Just ask the other servants to meet me in the drawing room this evening. I have a plan to help Signor Bellandi lift the curse but I will need your help."

She nods, then makes for the door.

An hour later, dressed again and feeling refreshed, I wander into the garden for a stroll around the grounds. It's a beautiful day, even by Venetian standards. The sun is blazing bright above me, reflecting in bright, focused stars off the waves in the water around the island. I walk slowly, absorbing the scents and sounds of the garden as well as the sights, letting the rays of sunshine sink into my skin. A treacherous voice in my head seems to whisper that perhaps this isn't such an awful place to be imprisoned. It's true that the social scene leaves something to be desired, but I can't say I'm wholly unhappy.

I have arrived on the lawn where Benedetto and I watched the sun set. Something is different. I feel a presence at my shoulder.

"Faustina." It's Benedetto. It's difficult to judge from the three syllables of my name but his tone seems almost friendly, not angry or laced with its usual dose of bitter sarcasm.

I turn to look at him - or at the mask, at least. "Good afternoon. You're still speaking to me, then? I thought lines of communication had been cut off."

His gaze shifts uncomfortably over my head, as though he's suddenly been reminded of an interest in birdwatching. "I wanted to talk to you about that."

"About not talking to me?"

He meets my gaze again, his eyes narrowed. "This isn't easy, you know."

I could keep this up but I don't feel much like antagonising him at the moment. "Go on, then. What did you want to talk to me about?"

He hesitates. "I just wanted to say… I'm sorry. Not for everything, I mean, you're still a shameless confidence trickster who preys on the vulnerable."

I swallow. "I'll keep that in mind."

"But I haven't been quite fair to you. I know better than anyone that being stuck here isn't something to wish on a person. So I'm sorry. I mean, I'm not, because what you intended to do to me was wrong. But you don't deserve to be a prisoner, even for that. And I wanted to make it up to you. The stuff I am sorry for, I mean." He pauses again, hopefully feeling the force of the stare I'm giving him. "I thought you might join me for lunch."

He gestures down the lawn and I notice a small table has appeared on it, set for two.

I smile. "I suppose I could move some appointments around and squeeze you in."

We walk over to the table together and, to my surprise and pleasure, Benedetto pulls out a chair for me before taking the other for himself. I help myself to antipasto using elegant silver utensils.

"All right," I say. "What's this about? When you stormed out this morning I thought I wouldn't be seeing anything of you for a good week or so."

Benedetto gives a little nod of acknowledgement. "I know. "He is still for a moment. "It was the notes. I still can't reconcile the person I thought was writing them with the person you seem to be, but I suppose some of it makes sense. Your recklessness is certainly familiar."

"I don't think I'm reckless," I tell him.

"Really?" He sounds genuinely surprised. "I thought you took pride in it."

Faustina frowned. "I take pride in a lot of things. I don't think anyone's ever accused me of modesty. But recklessness isn't one of them. On the contrary, I've always been disposed to think of myself as rather sensible."

Benedetto folded his arms, amused. "How can you justify a viewpoint like that?"

"I don't think anything I do is reckless. I take care of myself. Sometimes I take care of other people, too."

"Do you intend to keep making your living in this way indefinitely?"

I don't have an immediate answer. "If you'd asked me that a few days ago, I would have said yes. Now, I'm not so sure."

"Wealthy relative come down with something incurable?"

I laugh. "Hardly. I don't stand to inherit anything but debts and I intend to evade them with considerable vigour."

"So what changed?" 

I look at him for a moment. Alessia's story is not mine to tell but, on the other hand, it's unlikely that Benedetto will spread it as gossip. And it illustrates my feelings about magic rather well. I summarise it, leaving out her name. He listens quietly, without interrupting me, and I find myself wishing that I could read expressions on his masked face.

Once I've finished, he seems to take a few moments to digest what I've told him before speaking.

"You seem to have painted yourself rather as the hero there."

I shrug. "Hardly. I'd happily have stayed warm and dry in my rooms if I'd thought someone else would take care of it. I pulled her out of the water because I'm the one who'd have had to live with myself if I'd let her drown. I wouldn't call that heroism."

Benedetto fiddles with his glass. "Maybe not. But good, nonetheless. It seems I am seeing a different side to your character."

I'm horrified to find myself blushing. My hands fly to my face, under the pretence of smoothing my hair, and I drop my gaze. "One that you wouldn't have thought possible, I suppose?"

"Just as you say."

I cough, then change the subject. "I… I want to apologise to you." The words surprise even me but, as I say them, I realise they're the truth.

Benedetto appears taken aback. "What for?"

"The way I told you about the notes. I shouldn't have teased you about it."

He tilts his head to one side for a moment, hesitating. "That's all right," he says, eventually.

I shake my head. "It isn't. We've got our differences of opinion about this alleged curse, but if those notes brightened your day when you got them anything like they did mine I can see why you'd be disappointed."

"I'm not disappointed."

I laugh. "That's not the impression you gave last night!"

"I know. But I've been thinking about it since then and it's really not such a shock. The girl I met during Carnivale was trouble, just like you."

I'm blushing again, but this time I don't try to hide it. I smile and raise my glass. "To trouble."

"To trouble," he replies, and we drink.


	19. Chapter 19

FAUSTINA

A few days have passed since our al fresco luncheon and the plan for the ball has started to take shape. I have arranged for it to take place one week for today. I am reasonably sure that no major social events are due to take place next week - besides this one, of course - so hopefully the turnout will be sufficient to give Benedetto a few chances to impress.

My instructions to the servants were clear and concise and I have promised to help them as much as I can, though I suspect that Benedetto will need someone to make introductions for him and possibly deliver a swift and subtle elbow to the ribs if he starts being sarcastic to any of the guests. I know from dull and disappointing experience that the majority of society ladies are not nearly as given to witty repartee as I am.

I have written to Beatrice to ask her to round up as many of her friends as she can and get them here. She replied enthusiastically: apparently Signora Sebastiano has heard of the Bellandi family and is impressed by my connections. I wonder idly if she will be sufficiently impressed to let me live with her for a little while after Beatrice's marriage. What with being held against my will and everything I haven't had much time to plan for the future.

The letter I sent to Chiara was a little different. It's not that Chiara doesn't know anyone in the circle of nobility, it's just that none of them are likely to want to go anywhere she invites them. In any case, they're all men, which doesn't help. No, what I need from Chiara - what, in fact, I hope I won't need from Chiara - is her help. I've told her to wear her best gown and be ready.

I invited Alessia too, just because I want an opportunity to see her again. A matchmaking ball is probably not how she wants to spend her time, but I hope she comes.

It is the morning of another bright, sunny day and I am perched precariously atop a ladder, wiping dust off a portrait in the entrance hall. The man in the painting is handsome, with a strong jaw and smooth, gold-tinged skin. I don't know him - the plaque at the bottom of the frame indicates that he died before I was born, so that accounts for it - but the sharp, enigmatic gleam in his eye is familiar. His name is Filippo Bellandi.

A different Bellandi - not dead - enters the room and makes me jump.

"You don't have to do the housework," he says, mildly amused. "I do still have servants."

"Yes, but only four - and a week to go until the ball. They can't cook all our meals, tend to everything else that needs doing and get the house cleaned before then. It wouldn't kill you to pick up a cloth and give me a hand." I take a breath and blow a cloud of dust off the frame to illustrate my point but it backfires a little when most of it enters my lungs. I splutter and Benedetto laughs.

"Well, after you've made it look so inviting, how can I refuse?" He crosses the room and picks up a cloth off the pile I've left on the sideboard. "Where would you like me to start?"

I raise now-dusty eyebrows. I didn't really expect him to take me up on it. "Anywhere you like, I've only just started myself."

He pulls up a chair of his own and gets to work on the next painting. "I'm not sure I've ever done this before."

I open my mouth to accuse him of being privileged. Something stops me. The truth is, I can't remember when I last did housework, either. Unusually, I settle on friendly encouragement instead. "Well, you're doing fine so far."

He shoots me a glance. From the way his eyes crinkle, I assume there's a smile to go with it. "So, what are the other jobs you've requisitioned the staff for?"

I count them off on my fingers. "The cook's putting together a menu for us to look at - you're going to have to get Cingolani to put in an order somewhere for the food. Your butler's raiding the wine cellar and giving the silver a polish. The gardener's having a quick tidy up today and tomorrow and then helping to move furniture later in the week. Oh, and helping the maid beat the dust out of the curtains."

"Move the furniture?" Benedetto's tone is inquisitive with a hint of bewilderment.

"Yes, there's nowhere for people to dance so we're making the dining room into a ballroom and moving the table into the drawing room."

"I see. And are there any other upcoming changes in my house that I should be aware of? A bath being installed in the library, perhaps?"

I shake my head, cheerily. "Nope. Just the transformation of the Master of the house from bitter bachelor to happy husband."

Benedetto snorts. "Is that all?" He flicks away the last couple of dust particles on his painting and dismounts to reposition his chair. "There's really no need for me to marry the woman. Just fall in love."

I give him a sidelong glance. "Oh, is that all? That rare, elusive emotion that poets have been attempting to pin down for generations? It's almost too easy. Maybe we could do something else at the same time just to keep our minds occupied. How about learning to transmute lead into gold?"

Benedetto gives me a long, even stare, then lifts his hand and flicks the cloth at me, releasing a tiny fog of dirt.

"Hey!" I wave it away.

I can hear suppressed laughter in his voice. "I think I've made my point."

I grin. "Then allow me to riposte." I take a breath, lean into the wall and blow all the dust from the top of Filippo's frame directly towards Benedetto. It settles nicely in his hair.

He glowers at me, running his free hand over his head in an effort to brush it out. Then, in a sudden, quick movement, he throws the cloth at my head. I move to evade it but lose my balance in the process. I've only just had time to register that I'm falling and start to let out a squeal when he catches me.

I'm in his arms, pressed against his warm chest and looking into his eyes.

"Thank you," I say, my voice much quieter than I expected.

"You're welcome."

He lowers me to the ground but we're still locked in an embrace. For a moment, I think we're about to kiss. Strangely, I don't mind.

Then I remember the mask.

He pulls away. "Back to work."

"Yes." I re-mount the chair, subjecting Filippo to a brisk and thorough dusting. Further along the room, a woman wearing pearls and a stern expression gets similar treatment.

My cheeks are burning, but I'm smiling a little.


	20. Chapter 20

_Sorry for the delay, I'm struggling again! :(_

* * *

CHIARA

"Wake up, girl!"

A sharp voice wrenches me from sleep. I was dreaming intensely, the sort of dream that's so real that waking up seems a confusing fantasy. Breaking open my eyelids is torture and the image that greets me is hardly an improvement. Isabella is standing over me, her face a mask of fury. For a moment or two I can't even speak, my tongue not having awoken with my mind.

Finally, I croak out a bleary "Wh-what?"

Isabella throws back my sheets and grabs me by the arm, hauling me out of bed. "Look at what you've done, idiot child!" She drags me over to the open window and pushes my head out of it, forcing me to look out.

It is early in the morning and the air is cold. A weak, grey light illuminates the canals and bridges. The comparative silence makes it easy to pick out the heated discussion going on on the street below. Among the figures I pick out Giorgio and Chiswick, along with some unsavoury characters who seem to be advancing on my stepbrother. I feel my blood run cold. Giorgio is a lot of things, but he's not a fighter.

"I don't understand." Normally I don't like to give Isabella any excuse to call me stupid, but I'm not thinking straight. "What's happening?"

Isabella wrenches me back again. "What's happening," she snarls, "is that Lord Chiswick has figured out that there is no Venetian custom whereby placing a shoe on a woman's foot constitutes a formal offer of marriage. Lord knows how, it's an utterly impenetrable lie." She puts her face uncomfortably close to mine. "I have asked for so little of you, Chiara. I've fed you, clothed you, trained you, and all I've asked is that you pull your weight, help to bring in a little money for us. Your father left us with nothing. Any other woman would have abandoned his destitute daughter to her fate, I've a son of my own to care for, but I took care of you as well. And this is the thanks I get! You ignore everything I've taught you and make up your own foolish story that a child could see through. A shoe, Chiara! And now he'll spread the word. In a month's time we'll be lucky if there's a nobleman anywhere in the known world who doesn't know that the Scordatos are confidence tricksters."

Her grip has been tightening on my forearm as she speaks, her long nails digging into my skin. I let out a yelp when I notice she has drawn blood.

She shoves me onto the bed, giving me a disdainful look. "Don't you dare snivel at me. How are we to live? How do you propose that I am to get food on our table if we have no means of support?"

The door opens and Giorgio walks in. "We reached an agreement," he says, but neither of us is looking at him. Fixing me with blazing eyes, Isabella raises her hand and strikes me across the cheek. The pain is strangely numbing. Giorgio rushes forward. "Mamma, no, you can't!"

Isabella lifts her hand again but Giorgio grabs it. I can see fear in his eyes. She's never been this bad before. She turns on him. "Don't defy me, Giorgio."

Giorgio ignores her, looking at me. "Chiara," he says, "get out of here. Go, now."

I nod, wordless, then reach under the bed for the bundle of men's clothes. I don't have time for dresses. I leave the room, pausing only a moment at the doorway to look back at Giorgio.

I change hastily at the foot of the stairs, dropping my nightgown on the floor. There are voices coming from the other side of the front door. I don't wait to find out whose. I race through the kitchen and out through the back door.

Hurtling down the street outside, I realise I don't know where I'm going. I don't have anywhere to go. My only friend in Venice, apart from Giorgio, is Faustina. And she's not in Venice. Irrationally, I'm angry with her. I've helped her out of dozens of scrapes and now, when I need her to help me out of this one, she's not here.

If only I had her talent for landing on my feet. She's so lucky to have Beatrice and Signora Sebastiano let her live with them.

Would they help me?

It's a long shot. I have an idea that Faustina's friends are not high on the list of things they like about her. But it's the only option I have.

I stop running once I'm a few streets from the house. Isabella won't chase me. If she wants to get hold of me she'll find an easier way than that. I wonder if she even will, after this. If what she says is true, I won't be of any more use to her now. Would there be any point in her trying to find me? A growing sense of elation begins to flood through me. What if she doesn't come after me? What if I never have to see her again? But the feeling is quickly tempered by worry about Giorgio. He doesn't deserve to be left alone with her, and there's no chance she'll let him go without a fight. Giorgio is her son. I don't know if I'd go so far as to say that she loves him, but she values him. If he ran, she'd follow him.

I shake my head softly as I slow my pace, blending in with the Venetian street life around me. In my mismatched, thrown-on clothes, I look like an urchin who has obtained the outfit through either theft or begging. I catch one or two of my fellow vagrants eyeing them up but I fix them with hard stares and they don't approach. I probably look a bit wild and nothing I'm wearing is worth the hassle.

I don't observe the downside to my fashion choices until I arrive at Beatrice's house. Facing the huge, imposing door makes me miss Faustina keenly. If she were here I could go round to the servants' entrance, get hold of her through one of the kindly souls there and be smuggled up to her room with minimal fuss. Without her, there is no choice but to knock on the front door.

Zambrano answers, after an austere pause, and looks down at me with an expression that seems to suggest that if he were to scrape me off his shoe I would still be aspiring to a position in society far higher than any I could reasonably hope to attain.

"I need to speak with Beatrice," I say, my voice sounding a lot smaller than I would like.

I would not have thought it possible, but the look of disdain intensifies. "Signorina Idoni is not in the habit of receiving beggars."

I swallow. "Please," I say, "it's important. I'm a friend of Faustina Casanova's." It's a bit of a gamble, saying that. There are many places in Venice where it's akin to an admission of guilt. I hold my breath.

Zambrano's face softens, though only a little. A slightly quizzical look invades his features. "Wait here," he commands, turning on his heel. He pushes the door closed behind him.

I spend an anxious few minutes by the canal, smoothing my hair and wondering what is to become of me. I am surprised to find myself frightened by the prospect of freedom. In all the years of living under Isabella's tyranny, I never thought escape would feel helpless. But it does. It begins to dawn on me that I have no idea how to support myself, what to do for money and support without Isabella's scam.

I'm just starting to panic when Zambrano reappears. "Signorina Idoni and Signora Sebastiano will see you," he says. I take a deep breath and follow him into the house.


End file.
